The Quality of Resonance
by Sealink
Summary: Unusual powers bless a Hunter. He is given a quest, but cannot dream of how it will end. Now, he seeks justice and an understanding of his seething power that grows ever more unpredictable. It may simply kill him, or it may bring his world down with him.
1. A Hole in the Earth

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**: _Aliens and Predator do not, of course, belong to me. This is meant to be a large-scale, epic work that encompasses the whole of Predator civilization. If you're expecting random hick town "unexplained" murders or marine-on-xenomorph action, please be advised: none of that is here._

_Reviews are always appreciated, as they let me know my story is being read._

_In addition, this story is rated M for mature because it deals with sex, gore, violence and language that many parents would not feel comfortable having children read. It also deals with issues that children and even younger teens may not be able to understand, and I will not dumb down my writing for them. _

_Also please be advised: I am a scientist. According to scientific rules of logic I have picked and chosen the parts of the fandom which make sense, such as Predators being therapsid-like in their composition. I have also discarded, based on my interpretation of science as we know it, those ideas which are ludicrous, such as natural 'heat vision' and ectothermy. (Heat vision because of the structure of the eye, similar to a human's which would be composed of rods and cones and therefore perceive visible light, and ectothermy because their braincase is enormous and large brains generally require warm-bloodedness.) _

_My advice to you is to leave those nits alone and enjoy._

**xXx**

The midwife, an aged hag with greying locks watched the old mother labor with her child. The midwife was some 150 years her senior and had delivered thousands of sucklings. In all her years tending the newly-born and their mothers, she had seen few births as difficult as this. The bitch, Uru'ki, was well past the age of a normal breeding female. The midwife would normally have given this as the reason for a child taking so long in the birth canal. But for this child, something was surely different. Uru'ki had birthed ten times before, breeding strong and courageous warriors. But the father of this child was different.

Uru'ki was tired of the same Blooded, she had said during the post-coital meeting with the midwife. The father of this child, she had said, resting her hand on her still-flat belly, is special. The midwife, who had no name, could not have known how special he was. Perhaps she thought that he was an especially exceptional Hunter with scores of skulls lining his walls. She could not have been more wrong.

Uru'ki sighed heavily, her hulking form bent over the birthing bench. The midwife moved between her haunches to inspect the child, who was still refusing to move down the birth canal. Uru'ki's strength was gone out of her; the labor was taking too long and the midwife began to fear for the child. She chattered softly at Uru'ki, urging her to try one more time. The deep-set eyes flickered open, half-lidded. "It is no use," she offered, defeat in her voice. "I am too old. Cetanu will be waiting for him when he is born." The midwife frowned. Speaking of death during a birth was unwise. "Do not say such things. He will grow up and be a fine warrior, just like your other sons." Uru'ki managed a small smile and then gripped the midwife's hand, tightening her massive grip. A low roar started in Uru'ki's throat; the midwife felt the heartbeat of her charge quicken and become erratic. Uru'ki's mandibles flared wide, and her voice was stretched hoarse with screaming. The midwife, bearing the noise, looked down to find that the child was moving down the birth canal, and she discovered the reason for the delay; his head was too large. She reached out to support the child as he came into the world, cradling his small, gray-green body. Uru'ki's voice failed her and she slumped over the quiet child.

The midwife sliced the child free of his mother with the _da'kalei_, the child-knife. She up-ended him and pulled his mandibles free of their birthing membrane, opening his mouth up to breathe. A quick swat to his bottom dislodged the mucus plug in his lungs. It splattered wetly on the floor, mixed with the green blood of his mother. The baby sucked in a breath and began to bay and howl for a teat. The midwife wrapped the child in swaddling cloth and turned to Uru'ki. "See, a fine son!" Uru'ki's thighs were smeared with black-green blood, the blood of the dying, and it formed a mire on the birthing bench, on the floor. The midwife bent next to Uru'ki, the child in her arms forgotten. Uru'ki's eyes were dull and did not see. "You fool," she whispered. "Cetanu was here, but not for your son."

The midwife named the child Escthta, which means "mind-born". It was an unusual name for a boy, but she felt it appropriate for him. Uru'ki would have been pleased, for the child's father was not a mere Hunter, but a powerful psionic, Thio-de, gifted with mind-sight. It was too early to judge the young Escthta's psionic ability, if indeed he had any. Given the mother, though, the midwife could not help but feel strongly that he was a unique child who carried the force of two lives inside him- his mother's and his own.

**xXx**

Escthta paused at the foot of the ramp, surveying the landscape. The wet, marshy ground held a veil of mist close to it, occasionally allowing twisted black branches to claw up beyond the gossamer flow. It was chill in the air, and he half- reluctantly stepped off into the vapor, feeling the ground give wetly under his clawed toes. He paused and flicked the shiftsuit on as Cthinde drew up next to him. They were the scouting team on this Hunt, and their comrades would prepare the restraints before they set out to capture their prey.

Cthinde turned his shiftsuit up as well, although they both knew that the advantage they gained from it was trivial at best. The Hard Meat was not fooled by technology; their Queen, with her enormous brain, saw without seeing. She would feel them enter her lair, send out her guard to deal with the menace, and hiss in rage when they did not return. The bravest warriors took a Queen very seriously, and Cthinde was braver than most. He flicked his eyes toward Escthta, looking at and through him at the same time. Escthta was his friend; they had grown up together, and Cthinde knew that this hunt might kill one or both of them. The circumstances of the Hunt demanded the best: the Queen must be taken captive, and alive. Take skulls only if it does not jeopardize the queen. The Queen takes priority. Cthinde checked his spear and then clicked once at Escthta. Escthta ran off in reply, and Cthinde followed, both of them running the full 200 meters to the yawning chasm where the monster's lair lay.

Escthta and Cthinde split rank in front of the dank black maw, each moving to one side. Stale, rank air rolled forth over the ropy black resin that crept out of the hive. Escthta made a small movement with his hand and chittered softly. I go first. You get the ones who come from behind. Cthinde nodded, inwardly glad that Escthta had volunteered. Of course it meant that he would be handling the drones, but he was quite content to take them on and leave the Queen's Royal Guard to his friend. Escthta was stronger than he was, and Cthinde wasn't afraid to admit it. But Cthinde's reaction time was better, and he could handle the swarms of drones with the kind of split-second reaction time that meant the difference between life and death. He nodded inwardly again. Yes, it was better this way.

With their backs to the wall, they crept inside; Escthta ever so slightly forward, their spears and shoulder cannons at the ready. The air grew thick and damp; Cthinde took it in deeply, trying to scent the _kainde amedha_ he knew were coming. The queen must know by now; they were so deep into the hive and no attack had come yet. He strained his eyes, looking for the subtle tone-on-tone movement. He rolled his wrist, hefting his spear and preparing to extend the blades. Escthta was moving slower now, his head jerking at the smallest sound, his mandibles clicking unconsciously as he entered the _dt'tlei-de_, the warrior mind. Cthinde tried to let his mind sink into the meditation, where there was no distraction, only movement: action and reaction. As he lengthened his brainwaves, his vision changed and things stood out in sharp relief. He saw the drone slip out of a side passage some 20 paces back. Without needing to engage his mind, his burner fired a blue-white shot and the drone screamed and smoked on the floor. Escthta paused only for a moment. He raised his spear and the long, acid-proof pikes slid out. We're here, he chattered. Without taking his eyes off the rear guard, Cthinde knew from the smell of rotting flesh and fetid birth: the Queen's antechamber.

The still air inside the chamber was rank; Cthinde reeled as his scent organ took in the conflicting smells: dead bodies; the resinous hive matrix; the acrid newness of the Queen's leathery eggs. Escthta seemed unaffected by the stench and was, if anything, more tightly wound than ever. He dipped the front of his spear forward as they moved around a corner and into the Queen's chamber proper. His blade was ready for the Royal Guard who lurked in the dark recesses.

Cthinde heard the call of the Guard as it fell, a deeper, desperate scream. Before he could blink, drones swarmed out of countless labyrinthine passages, their silvery teeth and glistening long heads turned toward him. He began to fling them away with his spear, burning those at a distance and engaging in closer combat with those too quick for his cannon. Their acid blood flowed, and he quickly regained the warrior's mind, seeing clearly their numbers and attack patterns. Escthta would surely be in dt'tlei-de as well, although his dance with the Royal Guard would resemble nothing of Cthinde's dervish. Cthinde turned to impale a drone, grinning at its death throes. The pace of attack seemed to diminish, and Cthinde felt sure that he was at last thinning their ranks. He did not see them crawling out of a crevice above his head.

It was Escthta's bellow which alerted him. "Cthinde, above you!" Cthinde whirled to find the dim passageway between Escthta and himself seething with Hard Meat. The closest one sprang at him, reaching out with long claws and talons. Cthinde took the drone as it hit him, his large hands gripping the ridged alien's sides, and fell back, launching the drone back over his head with his foot. Its hard body clattered against the wall, and Cthinde jumped to his feet, turned, prepared to face its attack.

The drone turned back upright, its sharp tail flailing and lashing the air. It hissed and sprang forward, locking arms with the yautja in front of it. Saliva flowed from its jaws and it flexed its tongue-mouth, driven to a mad frenzy by the proximity of the Queen. Cthinde's arms locked against its onslaught, and he threw the thing again. It seemed to turn in midair, striking out with its tail as it landed, and barely missing Cthinde's head. It screamed and charged him, knocking him to the ground. Cthinde struggled with its new-found strength, born of the War Empress' influence. The little mouth shot out and snapped at Cthinde, who barely held its teeth at bay.

Escthta knew, on some level, of the life-and-death struggle going on a few paces behind him. His warrior mind accounted for the thrashing bodies and he found some small comfort in them, knowing that as long as the movement was violent, Cthinde was still alive. His mind considered this on the fringe of its current task: watching the Royal Guard in front of him. He could not see the Queen yet, even with his improved vision. The larger warrior alien's head was solid black, not faintly transparent like the drones'. It had small processes on either side that formed a small comb at the back of the head. Escthta took it as a serious threat; this being had the potential to become a Queen after they took their prize and it deserved to be treated as such.

Conservation was a chief concern among the yautja. It was critical that native species be preserved, that the area might rebound after a Hunt and be good hunting grounds for other clans later. For this reason, all _kainde amedha_ who were seeded on a planet were killed before leaving. This planet, however, had a natural abundance of the Hard Meat. Their scout ship in orbit had detected no fewer than three older, mature hives, one on each continent. Years ago, the yautja had declared the planet a natural preserve, and it was here that all clans came to get their Queen who would lay the eggs that seeded Hunting worlds. _Kainde Tjau'ke_, they called it, a hard rock. The world belonged solely to the Hard Meat; evolution and speciation steered well clear of this world, where their mechanisms would be useless against the Queens and their progeny.

Escthta knew all this naturally; his familiarity with the intellectual pursuits of the yautja was unusual at his age, a mere 300 years. He had no doubt that the Royal Guard in front of him had gone unchallenged for at least as long. It had still not moved, though his spear was ready if it did. The Guards were not aggressive, unlike the drones. Their singular purpose was to protect the Queen. He sidled against a wall opposite the Guard. The larger alien curled its lip, exposing its shining teeth. Escthta paused, evaluating the warrior's posture and threat. He was growing more and more impatient; the others would be here soon, and they would expect that the Queen be ready to be moved to the ship. He hesitated only a moment and then stepped forward to join it in battle.

Escthta's mandibles flared inside his mask as he charged the Guard. He stomped his foot into the resinous floor, trying to gain purchase. The long head loomed large in his vision, the teeth gnashing terribly. He strained against the larger alien and twisted his body to throw it, putting all his weight into the move. The black alien twisted back, and Escthta was sent flying; he landed on his right side and felt his shoulder pop out of its socket. He briefly assessed the damage. It's my spear arm. If I can get a moment, I can put it back in and at least stand a chance. He rolled to his other side to get to his feet and was halfway up, his useless arm dangling at his side, when the Guard leapt on top of him.

He crumpled to the ground under its weight. It held his head down with a clawed foot, mask pressed into the hive matrix. Escthta did not see the writhing tail line itself up with his back, the spear-sharp point curved wickedly toward his spine. The weight of the Guard cut off blood flow to his brain and he felt his nerves lose contact with the rest of his body. _So, this is how I am to die? With a Queen just beyond this Guard, facedown in their hive?_ He reached out feebly to grab the foot of the alien that was not on his neck and had secured his grip around it when he felt the body shudder above him. The talons left his neck, and he breathed easier for a moment before he could find the strength to roll over and get up.

Cthinde held the Royal Guard impaled on a spear, its limbs still twitching. Escthta made a sign of submission to Cthinde, relinquishing his claim on the kill. Cthinde chattered approval and let the hard-bodied corpse slide to the ground, kneeling next to his friend and checking the airhoses on his mask. Escthta waved him off, rubbing his throat. The first group of Hunters had come in behind him, and Cthinde stood by his kill to have his prowess known. Rithc'te, the highest ranking Blooded in the first party, nodded at Cthinde. Cthinde roared his satisfaction and he and Escthta joined their ranks to go into the Royal Chamber and restrain the Queen.

The first four yautja through the archway were no match for the Queen's razor claws; she cleared them aside like rubbish. Their entrails seemed like small green footlights, and the Queen's enormous jaws hovered over the crumpled bodies, hissing her wrath. The ghoulish light provided foul illumination to work by, but no yautja had time to mourn those who gave their lives. Rithc'te stepped into the void left by his four comrades and fired his restraint cannon high. A thick squelch told of its purchase, and he struggled to fasten his end into the hive matrix. The Queen screeched as she brought her claws down on Rithc'te; it was her royal gift of warning, and with it, Rithc'te received deep gouges across his chest. He howled and fell backwards against the wall, the restraint cable limp in his hand. Cthinde leaped forward and grabbed the cable, plunging the anchor into the hive matrix and ratcheting the cable tight. The Queen's huge black crest was drawn down on her back, pulling her head up. Her deadly jaws were moved up out of the way, and her throat was exposed. Without being able to move her comb and shift her weight forward, she was paralyzed. The Hunters knew better than to revel in their luck; most restraint cables saw several hands before they were secure. The Queen screamed her outrage. The restraint cable creaked as she struggled, but it was woven soft, designed not to cut into her flesh and release her acid blood.

Precious few eggs had not yet been moved to the Egg Chamber. Those that did blossomed, their meaty petals opening and releasing their agile occupants. The facehuggers chittered and covered ground astonishingly fast. Cthinde and Escthta were the closest, and the facehuggers made them their targets. Escthta's burner fired four times, and four facehuggers sizzled and burned in the concavities of the hive matrix. The fifth made it to Cthinde. He blocked its grasping fingers, grunting as he fought it away from his mouth. He held it out and threw it to the ground. Escthta was ready and burned it immediately. It whined as it died, and Escthta jerked his head to Cthinde. "We'll call it even, then."

The rest of the Hunters fired their restraint cables and fastened the queen's limbs to her sides. One Hunter strayed too near and was dispatched with an errant swipe. He fell as others clamped her hands and fingers back along her length and blunted her claws with chunks of bone. Another Hunter brought her muzzle; a metal mask for the queen, a cruel parody of the masks her Hunters wore. He avoided her snapping tongue easily and fit it up and over her jaws. She yowled and moved her arms as if to remove it, but the ropes bound her tightly. Another Hunter fastened it behind her comb, and motioned to Escthta and Cthinde, standing on either side of the massive egg sack. They slid their wrist blades in under her knife-edged tail and sawed away at the crusty, gelatinous tube, cutting the queen from her ovipositor. Her screech echoed through the hive, a call to action from any of her children. And they came.

The second group of Hunters ventured fearlessly into the hive, suspensors strapped to their backs. They carried spears with tazers on one end, meant to stun the Queen and keep her docile while they moved her onboard the ship and into her holding pen. They stepped around the bodies of Cthinde's slain, and quickly, expertly secured the thrashing queen until she was little more than a seething mass of ropes. They worked quickly; the Queen was completely bound and ready to be moved when the attack came from all sides.

They came in waves, swarms, threatening to overrun the 20 or so remaining Hunters who guarded their prize jealously. One small team got the suspensors working under her weight and began moving her. The other 15, including Cthinde and Escthta, walked slowly with the Queen, defending themselves against her enraged subjects, while one of their number supported Rithc'te. Cthinde was relieved to see that his wound was not mortal. Queens were lethal enough, and the fewer Hunters that fell by her hand, the better. Almost as if she had taken issue with him, the Queen shrieked. One of the Hunters-in-waiting jerked the Queen's muzzle tighter, and she could no longer call her children to her. Cthinde paused as they passed his dead Guard. After a moment of deliberation, he darted out to cut the head from his kill. His work was quick, and Escthta kept the encroaching aliens off him while he dressed his kill. The skull came quickly, and he carried it with him as he killed the children of his Queen.

The Queen's screams turned to mewls of horror and anguish as she was loaded into her cell. One yautja lowered the collar which would hold the Queen and force her to produce eggs for the Hunt. Dvi'ren, an older Blooded, clapped the irons on her massive hands and around her neck. He did not flinch at the sound of her jaws gnashing inside her muzzle. He had been on many Queen-gatherings, and his heart was steady and strong. He secured the Queen in her collar and, half-affectionately, patted the side of her head. His years were catching up with him. Dvi'ren had been with the Clan for centuries- few Hunters saw their 600th birthday, much less their 700th. In a few months, he would leave his clan and go on his Last Hunt, seeking only the companionship of the Black Warrior. He smoothed his speckled palm on the side of the Queen's face, feeling her sinews stretch and quiver without fear. He clicked softly at her, as one might soothe a suckling, and the Queen quieted down, a small defeated mewl creaking out of her. Dvi'ren slipped away from the Queen and out through a small hatch hidden behind walls on the side of her cell. Another Hunter undid the fastenings on her and skipped out of the way of her reaching claws, yanking on the rope and sliding out of her reach into the small alcove and exiting the hatch. The Queen was bound, and she cried piteously as she felt the ship rock and lurch under her, taking her from her children.

Dvi'ren joined the rest of the clan in the _kehrite_, where celebration was already underway. Escthta was already at his song-writing, conjuring up a masterful re-telling of Rithc'te's bravery and Cthinde's courage. Rithc'te didn't hold much with singing, although he did like all the attention he was getting. Rithc'te was sitting in a place of honor on the arm of the Elder, his abdomen bound. His mandibles drooped slightly, but he had already drunk too much to dull the pain. Dvi'ren was surprised he had lived at all; most Hunters who took a hit from a Queen were doomed, as five warriors had already discovered. Syu'ne was sitting next to the Elder, talking amiably. Occasionally, they looked to Rithc'te for comment, and he would garble some response. Whether it made sense or not, the Elder and Leader both nodded slowly, as if considering this august advice. Dvi'ren chuckled softly. He too had been in that seat once, making a drunken fool of himself. Luckily, nothing said was ever taken very seriously; _c'ntlip_ was a masterful intoxicant.

Dvi'ren crossed the _kehrite_, avoiding Cthinde and a younger Blooded reenacting the capture of the Queen, and sat next to Escthta, who was using a stylus and writing the stiff, spidery script of their language onto a piece of thin holomembrane. Dvi'ren was illiterate; he could not read the lyric Escthta was laboring over. He grunted, by way of asking what the lyric was. Escthta clicked softly, the harsh words sounding almost soft under his breath.

_The vile demon queen did lay  
A thousand dead 'round her that day  
Though sharp of tail and fang and claw  
Though menacing her gaping maw  
Rithc'te the Brave ne'er did sway  
His aim was true, history may  
Gaze upon the Queen he won  
With eyes and wits and sharp talon  
So dearer than his mother's teat  
Is the weary warrior's resting seat._

Dvi'ren grunted again. It was good, and spoke truly of Rithc'te. Escthta was a strange one; Dvi'ren had never met a younger Blooded than himself who was so interested in the ways of their race, their laws and literature. Reading was not highly prized among their kind, so few learned more than the creation myths and number system. Escthta, however, was extraordinarily literate. It had a lot to do with the Elder that had accompanied this clan almost fifty years ago. The Elder Noskor, a truly old Blooded, some thousand years or so, had taken in the young prodigy, schooled him in the finer stylized arts of combat, and allowed him access to his library. Noskor was himself still alive, but Escthta's learning had met his own, and with his young apprentice fully schooled, the Elder had become an Arbiter. It appealed to his sense of justice, which was underdeveloped in most. Dvi'ren clapped Escthta on the shoulder approvingly. "It will serve him well." It was the closest thing to a compliment Dvi'ren had ever given. The party continued long into the night, and they made merry at the expense of their royal guest.

Escthta emerged from his quarters some hours later, wincing. Even he had consumed too much _c'ntlip_, the fermented fruit brew that stole inhibitions and loosened mandibles. His head felt like it was packed in _te-dqi_, the thick slime of the Hard Meat. He passed Dvi'ren, who was also up and about and offered him a curt greeting. Dvi'ren shook his head and grinned toothily. "I stopped drinking hours before you did. You should try it sometime. Your mornings will be better for it, I assure you." He sulked at the pain in his head and went down the corridor to Cthinde's quarters. He pressed the sumcom and held his hands to his temples, massaging them gently. Maybe he would try to drink a little less tonight.

A rough bark came from behind the door, and Escthta pressed the sumcom again for entrance. The door whirred open, revealing Cthinde cross-legged on the floor, with his skull from the day before in a large metal cleaning pan. His gloved hands were black with cleaning fluid, formulated to dissolve even the aliens' unreactive black flesh. The fluid was especially effective once the corpse had been given the chance to 'mature'. Past a certain point, the liquefying meat simply released from the skull, becoming vaguely acidic slurry that tended to pit and warp the bone. That and the smell became almost unbearable. Timing the cleaning of a _kainde amedha_ skull was important to get the best possible skull with the least amount of trouble. Cthinde had apparently found the perfect time window; under his loving ministrations, the Royal Guard's skull was beginning to show its pearly secrets.

"It's a beautiful skull." Beautiful was hardly a term that yautja used often, or correctly; the word barely existed. But Escthta meant it; the skull had matured well and Cthinde's expertise at cleaning was making a good skull into something a warrior would place in the center of his trophy wall. Escthta's eyes moved up to the wall, noticing that Cthinde had already cleared a place for it, moving aside the human skulls from their last Hunt.  
"I am honored by your admiration," Cthinde answered, the traditional formal answer to such a compliment. Cthinde was purring with pleasure, carefully buffing away the flesh off the bone. The fluid ran down the sides of the skull, silty with chitin."You didn't come here just to admire my skull, did you?" Escthta jerked his gaze back to Cthinde, who had stopped cleaning for a moment to lock eyes with his friend. "You got a good enough look at it yesterday, I'd wager."  
Escthta smiled faintly and then grunted an assent. "Yes, I'd noticed its quality before." He'd noticed it well; such a fierce Guard, and it was a fine trophy. "We're heading straight for Council now," Escthta offered.  
Cthinde's head was again bowed over the skull, and he was using a small brush to push the silt out of the skull's grooves. His voice was flat. "Yeah, so what?" He looked up, a lewd curve to his mandibles. "Thinking about all those females?"  
Escthta snorted. "No." A pause. "Well, maybe some, but that's not why I'm thinking about Council."  
Cthinde had returned to his cleaning. "Oh really? What else is there at Council? Neither one of us is old enough to be an Elder. Our Clan has a Leader. We really have no business being there, do we? Besides the females," he added.

Escthta took a seat and leaned back against the wall, resting his forearms on his propped-up knees.  
"Lovely view," Cthinde joked and Escthta pushed at his cleaning tray, causing his friend to jerk his arms protectively around the pan. "Hey, watch it!"Escthta chuckled. "This view has never had any complaints, thank you." Cthinde grumbled, gingerly moving his pan back away from Escthta's feet."Why do you think Hir'cyn's traveling with us, Cthinde?"Cthinde shrugged, remaining intent on his work. "I don't know. Elders get bored easily. He's a wanderer; doesn't like to stay in one place too much. I guess. Maybe." Escthta's voice grew lower, as if he was afraid of being overheard. "He's from the Council."Cthinde's brush slipped, spreading silt all over the bone. He cursed and quickly poured more fluid on it to keep it from setting. "What do you mean, he's _from_ the Council? Why the hell would the Council send him here?"  
Escthta shrugged and spread his hands in ambivalence. "Maybe they're choosing Leaders for new Clans. Maybe Syu'ne is looking to move up to Elder. Maybe there's something special about this Council."  
Cthinde grunted, his mandibles tilted in the oral equivalent of a shrug. "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way-" he continued cleaning the skull's dentary, "-we're going to get rewarded for her Royal Highness."  
Escthta clicked softly. "You'll get the reward. You got the skull."  
Cthinde considered this for a moment and then chittered approval. "If Paya wills it, we will both be rewarded, my friend."


	2. The Shape of Water

Hir'cyn looked down the table at the Clan he was traveling with. They were all eating hungrily, still toasting themselves on the Queen's capture. The bard, Escthta, performed his finished lyric aloud with dramatic gestures, punctuating the story with his imitated howls of the Queen and the strong, valiant roars of Ri'thcte and Cthinde. For the most part, the Hunters were quiet and listened. They roared in indignation when the Queen clawed Rithc'te; they howled with satisfaction when she was muzzled. Even the recounting of the tale got their blood boiling hot; the smell of musk was thick in the air.

Hir'cyn was no stranger to the smell of aggression. Some 850 years old, he had seen more than his share of Hunts. He moved from Clan to Clan, living off of them. The bi-annual council was meeting this year, and the Council paid close attention to who the Elders recommended. At the last Council two years ago, his recommendation had been passed over in favor of a violent and ill-tempered Blooded who had been washed out before. Hir'cyn had no desire to travel with the Clan that was Lead by such a tyrant; the _kehrite_ would always be wet with musk and sweat there; there could be no peace when the Leader was always panting after battle and ways to prove himself.

Hir'cyn was much more at ease with this Clan. There was a nostalgic air to the room right now, and he could almost believe that politics had no effect here. The bard soothed him; it reminded him of the stories he had heard as a runt. Escthta had changed to some bawdy tale involving a female and an ill-placed spear, and Hir'cyn chuckled softly. Well, almost like the child stories.

He leaned back in his chair, his hooded eyes watching the Clan. Someone here was going to be his recommendation for Leadership. The ship was en route to the homeworld, set to enter orbit in the early hours of the morning. Landing clearance would take a few hours, but that was to be expected with the incredible number of dropships, each carrying eight or fifteen yautja, all bound for the Council. With luck, he would be able to meet with the Council and make his recommendation before the day was out. The obvious choice was an older Blooded, who would lead a Clan with experience. The oldest Blooded there aside from himself and Syu'ne was Dvi'ren, and he did not have the drive or charisma of a Leader. Neither did the next two, Kuthok and Yerunde. They were content with Hunting; neither one of them possessed the need to Lead.

The next youngest was Escthta, but Hir'cyn chafed inwardly at taking the bard from his true skill, which was storytelling. He had no doubt of Escthta's prowess in battle- he had seen it in the _kehrite_ many times- but the yautja's quiet demeanor when not telling stories worried the Elder. A quiet yautja was never a good sign. Even the timid ones were loud and quick to make challenges. It was all well and good to think and tell stories, but being too quiet led to the appearance of dishonor. Hir'cyn sighed softly. Many of the Elders he spoke with dearly missed the storytellers. Their caste had fallen out of favor with the newer, blood-driven Hunter that was around these days. Escthta was a welcome sight to Hir'cyn, and he used the familiar devices of his dying breed: the upthrust fist, the canted knee, the toothy snarl. Still, something about the deep nature of Escthta's eyes, how they always seemed to be focusing just past him and inside him, told Hir'cyn there was more to this Warrior than he was prepared to bargain for.

That left Cthinde. He was fifth choice, but Hir'cyn was not displeased with the idea of choosing him; he was charismatic- an important quality in a Leader, for all must follow his orders. He was just and good, and did not frivolously bring complaints against others. He preferred to settle things in battle, and always allowed the opponent a graceful retreat while never seeming defeated. _It was a fine line that Leaders must walk,_ mused Hir'cyn. Cthinde's youth would not help him on the Council, but perhaps he could persuade them with his performance in the Leadership trials. The Arbiters that awarded the Leaderships were notorious for their ageism; they deferred to whoever had the most seniority. Leaderships also had to be available; the construction of new ships took ages and untold resources. Most yautja were not even aware of how the ships were built or how the Arbiters obtained them. To be named a Leader was to become part of an inner circle, part of the elites who were privy to such knowledge.

Hir'cyn stroked the side of his mandible thoughtfully, sliding his fingertips down to the end of his tusk. Cthinde had taken that Royal Guard's skull, too, hadn't he? And during a Queen's capture, no less? The Queen was in immaculate condition, and the skull itself was near measureless against other trophies, save that of a Queen. It was an addition to the hunter's wall that could vault him into Leadership. Hir'cyn's brown eyes flicked back to Escthta, who was letting the others take the action and mime out Hunts.

Cthinde was using Dvi'ren as a prop in a retelling of his last hunt for the Soft Meat. Dvi'ren was remarkably good-natured about it; as Cthinde "took" his skull, Dvi'ren the human corpse flopped around and then latched onto Cthinde's leg. The room howled with laughter as Cthinde tried to dislodge the older Blooded from his shin. Dvi'ren shouted something about what a Hunter; doesn't he kill his prey first? Cthinde roared in mock-anger and made a false claw-challenge. Dvi'ren leapt up and the two circled each other, making over-dramatic charges at each other. The other Hunters were nearly rolling on the floor with laughter, and egged them on with insults and one-liners.

"Is that all you've got, Cthinde? You fight like a rhynth!"

"That's better than Dvi'ren! He fights like an ooman!"

"Are you sure that's better?" And the Hunters dissolved into howls again.

Hir'cyn smiled wanly. Cthinde was still so young and inexperienced. A Leader could be friendly with his Clan, but he had to remain somewhat distant or they would never respect him. Hir'cyn wondered if he was doing Cthinde a disservice by recommending him for a Leadership. Cthinde had proven victorious over Dvi'ren, who was taking his welts admirably. _Yes,_ Hir'cyn thought as he observed Cthinde with the Clan, _I must be a vile creature to take you away from this._

As a rule, Hir'cyn didn't like landings. He'd been in space for far too long to feel like ground was an entirely safe thing to be walking on. Hir'cyn used this as an excuse for his true fear of dropships: he hated heights. The planet loomed large in the portal at his cheek as the warship entered orbit. Up here it wasn't so bad, he thought. The dropship would leave the enormous warship and enter the atmosphere on its own. He was sorry to leave the Clan he had grown so fond of. They were milling around, finding their seats for the journey to the surface. The musk in the air stank of excitement and anxiety. This Clan was an established Clan, and it had a long history of its members becoming great leaders and many had been honored at Councils before. But this, however, was not what made them almost quiver with anticipation. During and after the Council's month-long business, the females would select sexual partners. He looked at Cthinde, his chosen recommendation, who seemed as antsy as the rest of them, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet to try and work off some of the adrenaline. Hir'cyn was feeling some of the adrenaline himself, but it was more over the cold and unexplainable fear that crept over his neck when he saw the surface rise up so quickly to meet him.

He turned away from the quiet view of the softly-glowing homeworld and looked again at the score of yautja who were finding their places and belting themselves in. Escthta was quiet, and showed none of the tension of the others. Where others tossed their heads, their braided dreadlocks always flying, Escthta's long tress remained still. Where others' legs twitched nervously, Escthta was unmoved. Hir'cyn was made uncomfortable by the bard's lack of anxiety; at 300 years, the storyteller was coming into an age of prime selection by females. To not be anxious, to be totally ignorant of the sexual frenzy that was building around him, well...Hir'cyn huffed softly. To his surprise, Escthta turned and looked directly at him. _He couldn't have heard that,_ Hir'cyn thought. The youth dared stare at the Elder for only a moment more without being impolite, and then his gaze drifted away again, focusing on things that were not there.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn disappeared from the shipping bay almost as soon as the hatch opened. His small entourage joined him in the dimly lit corridors that wound away from the docks, and his companion clicked softly as they moved, informing Hir'cyn of other happenings in the preparations for the Council. Several other ships had already arrived, their virile cargo being settled into their quarters for the month. "All the other Elders have arrived and made their recommendations, sir," the assistant chittered. Hir'cyn grunted. He was sure that his rival, the Arbiter Noskor, would have much to say about his recommendation. A smile curved his tusks wide. Indeed, he thought with pleasure, Noskor would not have the Council's ear this year, not after that Morun debacle. Noskor's previous pick had been given his own ship and his own Clan, yet so ambitious and so cruel were his Hunts that they were often reduced to fighting, not Hunting. It was disgraceful, and Hir'cyn had heard through various sources of his that Morun was going to be given official discipline and that all Hunters on that sojourn were in deep investigation, restricted to prisons until cleared by the Arbiters. Hir'cyn tossed his head slightly, shrugging off his personal acquaintance with prison. His companion let the gesture pass as they entered their car, which slid silently away from the spaceport on a cushion of gravity, vanishing into the dark, brooding city. He fingered his tusks restlessly as they moved ghost-like through the streets. He had an appointment with the Council; he was the last Elder to arrive, and they would be impatient to get on with the official business of the month now that he was there. The car slowed and pulled up at the small Council barracks, noticeably plusher than those granted to Hunters or even Elders. Other Arbiters not on the Council would be housed here as well, although Hir'cyn had no business with them. He and his valet stepped off the hovering car, which zipped away to another summons.

There were no badges of office that indicated this was the seat of power for their civilization. Hir'cyn walked up to the door and tapped the sumcom. The door whirred open. He turned to indicate that the servant was to wait outside, but the diminutive yautja had already hunkered down next to the wall. He was used to waiting while his master paid calls to Council members and Arbiters.

The inner chamber was as plain as the exterior, but dramatic, with black stone walls and a smooth, polished floor. The longish black box had no windows, and no other doors save the one opposite him. Between him and that door was a massive skull, mounted on black rock and lit with a strong white light. The smooth bone seemed to glow in the surrounding blackness, and Hir'cyn took a moment to admire it, as he always did. The skull was from a carnivorous species that had gone extinct before he was young. It was the loss of such magnificent prey that convinced many Hunters that conservation and preservation of natural resources was key to having good Hunting worlds. The skull had a pristine appearance; even after so many centuries, its many processes and fenestrae remained beautifully clean and sleek. Leaving behind the skull with a sigh, he proceeded to the other end of the hall, his footsteps making heavy, blunted sounds bounce off the stone walls. He rapped on the door, and shifted uneasily while he waited for them to answer. Meeting the Council was always dicey at best; the aged yautja were sometimes too brittle for the information they received. The door's metallic grinding cut him short, and he found himself in the company of a servant, which bowed deeply before him and stammered that he should kindly follow this way.

He walked purposefully behind the loping servant, his blue half-cloak drawn around his shoulder. He enjoyed the company of the Head of the Council, Tjat'le, but he was almost the only vestige of sanity left. All the others were cruel, sometimes ruthless in their judgments. There was almost always a death sentence for even the most trivial of crimes. Few of the Bad Blood survived if they were taken into custody. Hir'cyn grunted and it made servant slide to a halt and peer up at him with a frightened look. Hir'cyn hissed at him, impatient, and cuffed the servant on the side of his head. The servant yelped and sidled quickly down the hall. Hir'cyn could see the way his foot turned inward, which accounted for the strange gait. A small sting of regret touched him, but only for a moment. The servant bowed as they reached a larger set of doors, and tried to turn away. Hir'cyn blinked and quickly held his arm out to bar his way. He gripped the smaller yautja's mandibles and turned his head back toward him. The eyes were dull with ignorance and fear, but on his brow, there was a Blooding mark.

"What's your name, slave?"

"I-I don't have-" He yelped again as Hir'cyn's grip on his mandibles grew stronger. "Rathde, my liege," he stammered.

"Tell me, Rathde: how is it that you are Blooded?" Hir'cyn's voice was deadly quiet. "I always thought that deformed infants were killed at birth. Isn't that true, Rathde?" Rathde nodded eagerly, desperate to get his tender jaw out of Hir'cyn's grasp. "Then you got that club foot on a Hunt?"

Rathde froze, his eyes filling with understanding. "My liege, I-" Rathde's eyes darted left and right, but lingered on the large doors.

Hir'cyn lifted his head slowly. "This was your punishment?" Rathde had begun to whimper and squirm, and Hir'cyn released his head, standing quietly and watching the younger, smaller yautja rub his throat.

"I pray daily for Cetanu to release me," Rathde spat bitterly, and he ran to a service corridor as fast as his deformed foot would let him.

"As will I," Hir'cyn murmured. He watched the corridor where Rathde had disappeared for a few moments more, and then tapped lightly on the Council's doors. The doors opened before his fist fell, and he stepped inside.

**xXx**

Escthta and Cthinde were settled into their quarters with the rest of the Clan, but had barely gotten used to the smell when an announcement blared out from the sumcom; the Council was convening. Escthta and Cthinde followed the rest of their Clan out to the small robotic cars which were moving Hunters to the Great Hall in the center of the city. Cthinde saw its gloomy silhouette loom high and dark above them, and he felt discomfited by its domed shape, much preferring the smaller ziggurats that dotted the landscape surrounding it. The City had no name; it was simply where the Council was held every two years. The meeting place of Arbiters and Clans, Elders and females, it was not so much a city in use as a convention center. It was maintained between councils by slaves and lower-caste yautja, but it exploded with activity every two years, as the Arbiters awarded Leaderships and the females sought the mates who would breed them children.

Escthta worked this through in his mind with a sort of routineness; every two years they came and he mated, and every two years, the females would go to raise the young and the males were left with nothing but unrequited lust, which matured to blind rage. The Arbiters guarded the location of the female planet carefully, and Escthta hungered for that knowledge, not because of his lust, but simply because no one else knew where the females went. He felt the tender pangs of regret at relinquishing that skull to Cthinde, and he turned to look at his friend as they walked through the cavernous entrance of the Hall. Cthinde's eyes were wide, and Escthta heard his breathing whistle through his tusks, the noise that yautja made as they moved air over the olfactory organ in their mouths. Escthta could smell it too, that unmistakable aroma of female flesh, and in spite of his desire to remain distant, he felt his stomach muscles tighten to hold in that fragrant air.

The Hall's cavernous mouth was framed with glyphs and friezes of great warriors and priceless prey. He recognized a tableau of a young warrior and watched him become Blooded and honored as they walked past its scenes into the Great Chamber, several floors tall, and hundreds of tspans wide. The air was choked with musk, and each Clan had its own area, walled off from the others so that fights would be kept to a minimum. It was the only bow to civility made at these gatherings, and it was barely effective.

The honeycombed walls seethed with dreadlocks and flared tusks, and Escthta found himself nudging Cthinde and jerking his head toward the mezzanine adjacent to the Council members. Some females had entered and were reclining on heated stone couches. A shiver ran through him at their size and power, and the muscles in his arms twitched involuntarily; he curled his hands into fists, his claws biting into his palm. When the females were not around, he could pass them off as a biological urge, but the females' musk tampered with his ability to remain cool and level-headed. He could feel his skin getting hot, though it was already warm in here from all the bodies and the heaters. Cthinde clapped him on the shoulder, grinning lewdly. "We've got some good seats here, my friend. Right across from the females and really close to the Arbiters." Escthta nodded slowly, his eyes locked on an enormous female, at least a head and a half taller than him. Cthinde grabbed Escthta's tress and jerked his stare free of her, whispering urgently. "If she catches you staring at her, she'll challenge you. She's a giant!" Escthta blinked and then shook off the lust which had been blinding him, turning his eyes to the Council members who were gathered in a small group on their balcony. He recognized Noskor, the grizzled Arbiter who had gifted him with a library. Noskor's eyes, one clear and sharp, the other cloudy and blue, seemed intent on the other Arbiter, and their low tones remained indistinct to Escthta's ears, no matter how he strained. Eventually, he gave up and moved to the stone benches to sit next to Cthinde.

The Council's seven members turned as one, their greying heads thick with metal rings. Noskor was the youngest among them, and he had been an Elder for some time before joining the Arbiters and becoming a Council member. As the "young blood", he would have the least amount of influence on the Council, but some influence proved better than no influence at all.

The entire Great Hall fell silent before the Arbiters' tress stilled. None dared challenge the Council's authority or bring down dishonor and disrespect on themselves or their Clan. Escthta felt a small surge of pride in looking down at his mentor. He longed to tell him all he had learned from the documents left in his care, and how he wished that their race might be bettered through cooperation and understanding. Noskor's face remained closed to him; all he could see was the blind eye in its crippled orbit and scar. Escthta began to feel his enthusiasm ebb; even he who was so learned was still bound by the traditions of their race. _No, not bound by them_, he corrected himself. _He's embraced them_.

He had expected nothing else; the ancient tales were rife with victories over rival Clans, and the slaughter of those dishonorable yautja who attempted diplomacy. Escthta watched the rituals which opened the Council, the symbolic disemboweling of a struggling prey, and he felt helpless. So many times in these stories, he empathized with the yautja who were killed, even while defenseless. A defenseless prey was no prey at all, but the stories made much of the warriors who slaughtered these people to preserve the Hunters' way of life and so, gain glory for themselves. Such glory was bought with the blood of males and the screams of the females as their children were burned by the fires of war.

He snapped back to reality as the Council opened its business. "...new species which may be worthy Prey for us." Escthta's ears perked. A new species being discovered by their race was unusual enough; perhaps more unusual was that it was first order of business at the Council. "The Elders traveling among you have made recommendations for First Challenge, and from them we have selected a choice few to engage this creature in combat." Escthta became antsy, and he lightly bounced his legs to try to calm himself. "You who are chosen to meet him, step forward!" A rough hand grabbed Escthta and pushed his shoulder toward the lift. Escthta turned angrily to see who had made the challenge, but found only Hir'cyn, purring with pleasure. In his outstretched hand, he held a spear and a set of wrist blades. "My meeting with the Arbiters went well, Escthta. You have been selected to fight the Bathyrian."

**xXx**

Escthta stood on the lift in a daze, his fingers attaching the wrist blades by themselves. He wore only the most minimal of armor, but Hir'cyn had brought his heaviest spear. What is going on? We're going to fight this thing right here? Right now? He looked over at the handful of other Hunters who had each slid down on the lifts from their Clans' boxes. Their eyes were paranoid; they could not find a place to rest. A few were shaking out their limbs, trying to ready themselves for the fight. Escthta was seething with questions about his opponent, but the Head of the Council held up his hands and the entire Hall quieted.

"When new species are found, many times we simply kill them and take our trophies. Although our skulls are glorious, the true account of the Hunt is lost forever to those who did not witness it." Tjat-le's voice boomed and rolled around the arena; he held his audience spellbound with his tone. "This, honored warriors, is the first time in many centuries that we have found prey worthy of appearing at our Council. It is strong and sentient; ten Hunters lost their lives bringing it forth." A murmur swept through the Hall. Ten Hunters was the average casualty count for a Queen; what the hell had they found, and why did they bring it here?

Tjat'le's hoary head tilted down, and he gazed upon the group of Hunters below him, in the Arena. Almost like a father, he smiled down at them and spoke softly. "My friends, you are at a disadvantage in this Hunt, for your enemy is as smart as you are, outweighs you by ten times, and will never come to rest." He raised his hands and pushed the air in front of him away, his palms out. "_Dtai'k-de_!"

The platform beneath the yautja shuddered and dipped. Below them, the floor slid open, rolling away into unseen storage. Where there had been floor, there was now an enormous vat of water. The platform began sinking toward the surface, and the other yautja nearly spilled themselves over the railing trying to see their prey. It must be huge, Escthta heard them whispering. His eyes were also sliding over every wave, straining to see through it to where their prey might be. The platform was now a good distance below the original plane of the floor; if Escthta jumped as high as he could, he might be able to break the plane with his outstretched spear. The platform stopped when it was only just clearing the water, the cessation of motion causing many to half-crouch. Escthta again searched the black water for signs of prey. A shout came from behind him; something had disturbed the water and made a wake. Escthta crowded over with the other yautja, looking at the wake. It was broad, and anything that made that would be moving at a respectable speed. He opened his mandibles eagerly and was almost knocked over. A vile chemical smell blanketed the area, and it made black spots appear in his vision. He stepped back to take a deep breath and clear his head. The yautja next to him choked and vomited into the water. The railing held him up, and he watched his stomach's previous occupant slide around on the surface.

Tjat'le watched them stumble around on the platform, several meters down. He lifted his hand and signaled for the lights to be turned on. Escthta blinked and stood back from the railing of the platform. Something was very wrong. He looked down at his spear and then at the water, realizing in a flash that it would be too heavy. If he must battle something in the water, he had to stay as mobile as possible. He laid down the spear, checking his wrist blades one last time. A clank jerked his head up. A huge mat of ooze had wrapped itself around the railing. It was still for only a moment, and then it pulled down. The platform rocked violently, and the Hunters speared it gingerly, trying to preserve their anticipated trophy. The lack of air caused one Hunter to black out, and his body bounced and flipped off the platform into the water. The fleshy mass was unfazed by the wounds, and it reluctantly released its hold and slid down into the water. As it descended, each one of its talons clicked on the railing like an ominous metronome. Escthta shuddered and then turned to his own side of the railing, but was brought up short by the reddish glow. The lights were constantly obscured by the tank's occupant, which only shone through its flesh. He heard the clicking on the railing behind him, so unlike the friendly chatter of yautja, and it made his blood freeze. Nothing was going to be done by standing here. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and mandibles tightly and vaulted himself over the railing. Behind him, the platform tipped over and dumped his companions into the water.

Escthta surfaced, gagging. There was a oily substance in the water, an unpleasant sort of slime that was coating him and making it hard for him to breathe. He desperately wished he had a breathing mask, but there had been no time, no preparation. He was confused by the smell and the way it clung to him. A clear, fat globule dripped off one of his tusks and he spat in disgust. He looked around for anyone else, but he seemed to be alone. A stone formed in his gut as he began to realize that he would have to take this thing on without a Hunting party. He ducked under the water, deciding to risk opening his eyes.

The water stung them, but he could not trust the enemy to announce its attack. He could barely make out its form against the light, and it shimmered, seeming to change its shape even as he looked at it. He squinted, damning his eyesight and the oily slick in the water. If only I could get a good look at it. Almost as if it heard him, the flesh flowed away from the hot light, and the tank was fully illuminated for the first time.

Something from his most horrible nightmares lurked here. Thick coils of flesh radiated out from a central point, although it could hardly be called a body. It loomed in the blackness, nearly three times bigger than he was. The dorsal side had form, where the rest of the body did not; it was a large, domed half-skull with outgrowths like horns or fins on either side. Both textures and patterns of light seemed to drift across its skin. The skin gave the massive bone an iridescent quality as it flowed in and out of its grooves and over its processes. As he watched, the tentacles moved, their claws trailing threads of bright green. As he looked beyond the veils of blood, he saw two large eyes set side-by-side, jet black, with a surface like glass. They watched him, inscrutable, and he watched back, treading water. Something sent a shiver down his back, a feeling of raw danger, and he hunched over, just as a tentacle pushed through the water where he had been, claws extended. The movement flushed cold water down his back, and he knew that he had to move.

He twisted in the water and reached up with one hand to grasp the tentacle. It felt cold and squishy; his revulsion was immediate. He brought up his blade hand and tried to cut through the soft skin, but as he did, the tentacle slipped away, leaving only a thick coating of slime on his fingers. He was almost out of air, and he kicked toward the surface to breathe. A fleshy vine curled around his foot and tugged him down. Escthta grimaced as he felt the claws bite through his braces and into his leg muscles. He reached up, and his fingers broke the surface of the water, but the tentacle held him firmly down. He thrashed and then reached down and slid his wrist blades under the trailing part of the tentacles and drew his arm up sharply. The tentacle gave, and he clawed to the surface, gasping for air.

He gulped air and swam a few tired kicks over to the platform and reached up with one arm to grab the railing and began hauling himself out of the water with the other. The metal was bright green- slick with blood- and Escthta slowly became aware of a severed limb that was nudging his shoulder as the water moved. He retched under his arm, his nausea worsened by the fetid odor that clung to him. He had been on Hunts, and he had taken his share of trophies, but... this was his own people! These were Hunters, yautja, that this thing had ripped apart, twisting their limbs off as if they were nothing more than twigs. His muscles were trembling and his lungs ached, but he slowly pulled himself onto the platform, sliding belly-first through the gore and entrails.

Escthta lay there, panting, trying desperately to draw in some air that was not tainted with the miasma. He closed his eyes briefly before placing palm to deck and pushing up onto his forearms. I must not let it have the advantage. He was unsteady on his feet, and a burn was beginning to bloom in his injured leg, a sure sign of poison. He checked his wrist blades and found that they were still attached, still sharp. A spear lay near the lip of the platform, and Escthta felt sure that its owner could not begrudge him its use. He turned for it, and had only just wrapped his fingers around it, when he heard the movement of great amounts of water; the Bathyrian was surfacing behind him.

He turned to face it; it was unmatched in its hideousness. The smooth dome of its cranium blushed an angry red and its horns seemed like flames, but the eyes, those terrible eyes, remained deep and unfathomable. Though his body began to burn with fever, Escthta felt those eyes strike him cold. He was paralyzed by its stare. Before he could react, the two prime tentacles rose up out of the water and curled around him. He roared and struggled, but the tentacles were elastic, and they gave where he stretched and shrank where he moved. He began to exhaust himself; the binds were so tight that his wrist could not turn enough to extend his blades. He sucked in air, and turned his eyes up. The tips of the tentacles hovered menacingly, and finally, the flesh shrank back to reveal a sucker pad studded with long, wickedly curved claws. Its twin revealed a similar sucker, colored dark blue against the agitated red. With lightning speed, the tentacles thrust down and each met with the side of Escthta's head.

The Bathyrian rumbled, a deep, sonorous boom that was felt in the boxes high overhead. Escthta's eyes remained open, wide open, locked in that unbreakable stare. The Bathyrian roared again, and Escthta slowly closed his eyes. They remained like this for minutes or hours- the spectators were part of the spell, and not even Tjat'le could find the will to order the Hunt stopped. Then, as suddenly as it had attacked, it was gone. The tentacles unraveled, leaving their charge collapsed on the platform. The Bathyrian sank back into the cesspool and the water was still. Escthta lay quietly, blinking slowly through the blood that flowed from his temples, and then he rolled over, ignoring the filth and blood. "It is over," he wheezed softly. "I will not fight."

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_Many apologies to Architeuthis dux and the Watcher in the Water, as I have borrowed their physiology extensively._

_Also, much love to Solain Rhyo, without whom I would not have even found the courage to re-work and post this story._


	3. The Rules of Silence

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_Please be advised that this chapter contains sexually explicit situations. _

Tjat'le was beside himself. Some of the best of his Hunters were nothing more than playthings to the Bathyrian, and now the 'winner' was in the medical facility, having his wounds treated. The infirmary was no field hospital, so none of that barbarous gel sealant would be used, but he would still take some time to recover. Tjat'le paced back down to the other end of the hall, where Noskor sat. The rookie Council member was quiet and motionless, the direct opposite of Tjat'le's anxious pacing. "What the hell happened out there?" It was the fifth time he'd asked the question, and for the fifth time, Noskor answered, "I cannot say, Liege. We must wait for Escthta to tell us."

The door slid open, and the medic stepped out, drying his hands. "Getting him back up out of that pit was almost too little, too late. Did you know how thin the air was?" He shook his head disapprovingly. "It's a miracle he survived at all, much less with his injuries." Tjat'le opened his tusks and then thought better of it.  
"Will he survive?" asked Noskor.The medic nodded, his hands folded across his chest. "He'll survive," he answered curtly. Tjat'le drew himself up into a posture that was meant to command. "We must see him, immediately."  
The medic gave him a hard look. "He's feverish from the poison. It's better that he rests." Tjat'le snarled at the medic, who grounded his feet and began to prepare for an assault.  
Noskor stepped in. "If you please, doctor, it's imperative that we see him immediately, fever or no fever. I promise you that we will not distress him."  
The medic eased up out of his combative stance, and scowled. "You may see him, but only for a moment. After that, you leave and don't come back."  
Noskor waved, as if the conditions were nothing, but it was more to disrupt the strong odor of musk that had begun to fill the air. "Of course. His health is our primary concern." The medic nodded and moved aside, scowling at Tjat'le as he went inside.

Tjat'le and Noskor stepped into the room. Escthta's tall frame filled even the oversize medical bed, and his head and leg were still bandaged with the wads of cloth the field medics had used in the arena. "Escthta, I offer you congratulations on your victory." He held out his hand palm down to show his respect. Escthta's eyes were swollen and red, but he turned to look at Tjat'le. "It was no victory. It was a... truce."  
Tjat'le's eager expression evaporated. "Truce?"  
Escthta shrugged and winced as the motion moved his head bandages. "We called a truce. He didn't want to hurt any more, and I didn't want to hurt anymore."  
Noskor and Tjat'le exchanged glances before the Head of the Council continued. "You injured him so much by yourself?"  
Escthta blearily shook his head, again wincing, as though he hadn't remembered that the motion would cause him pain. "No. But he was hurting from his wounds with the other Hunters. He said he didn't have the strength to fight."  
Noskor's eyes, blind and seeing, became dangerous slits and his voice was soft. "He... said?"  
Escthta grunted, having remembered not to move this time. "He was very clear."  
"You spoke with him?"  
Escthta was quiet and not even a polite cough from Noskor could bring him back to his senses. Escthta's eyes had drifted off to some unmarked point on the wall and he was still focusing on it when he spoke. "Liege, would you honor the request of a warrior?"  
Tjat'le grunted. "I would consider it."  
"Kill him. Drain his tank and let him die." The request seemed to take strength from him, and Escthta sank back further into the soft bed, his eyes fluttering closed. Tjat'le stared at Escthta. Noskor smiled gently and cocked his head at his young apprentice.  
"Naturally, anything so utterly wretched would wish to die. We shall honor his request." He turned and silenced the beginning of Tjat'le's protests with a look that was pure murder. "Come, Liege. We must make arrangements for our guest."

Tjat'le whirled on the younger Councilman as soon as the doors were closed. "Are you mad? We don't owe that little shit _anything_. That thing is staying right where it is and no one is killing it or I'll have his _head_." Noskor's face was irritatingly unchanged, and the cloudy eye made Tjat'le shiver inwardly. "I'm afraid, Liege, that it is out of our hands," he said coolly. Noskor walked down the hall and turned the corner, leaving Tjat'le speechless with anger.

**xXx**

Escthta closed his swollen eyes as the door slid shut. He was aware of the heated exchange outside his room, but paid it no mind; it was nothing compared to the fire burning through his body. He cracked an eye, looking down at his leg, bandaged as it was, with small spots of green where he could not stop bleeding. He noted this with some dry amusement. He could feel the individual edges of each puncture wound, each frustratingly irritated by the cloth bandage; his head pounded while his arms shook with fever.

The medic appeared out of thin air and was examining the wounds on his leg; he took the maddening bandage off, and Escthta sighed in relief. The medic examined the ichor that was flowing from the ragged holes and began to click softly. The flesh was putrefying and if the leg was going to be saved, he was going to have to work fast. He turned to Escthta and threaded him up with a sedative. Within moments, the line in his arm had Escthta sleeping soundly. The procedure was quick; the medic cored out the dead and dying muscle, emptying out the infection and sterilizing the rest with an alcohol. His work was excellent, born of years undoing the field medicine that Hunters performed- in each of those cases, he had to core out the cement which had stopped the bleeding and had only mild regenerative effects and replace it with gel that would heal into flesh. He clicked softly as he worked, plugging the gaping holes in Escthta's leg with muscle replacement gel. The sheets turned greenish-yellow with skin and pus; the medic covered it as he cauterized the holes shut. He huffled softly and then moved up to look at Escthta's eyes. He opened each one, shining a light in it, and seemed satisfied with the dilation. He dialed down the sedative and re-bandaged the leg, taking care not to wrap it too tightly. There was little he could do for the head wounds except make sure that fluid pressure on the brain didn't build up.

Escthta drifted between nightmares and reality for days, his fever high. The dreams were disturbing, dark and full of voices and places he couldn't explain. Prominent in all of them was a large black shadow with grasping arms that reached out to strangle him. When the cold tentacles wrapped around him, he screamed. Yet, in the heart of that darkness, there was calm. Though his heart could not slow from fear, his brain was taking it in and processing it in a coolly logical way. Though he felt short of breath, his brain told him he was not exhausted and that the air would come. Though he was burning with fever, his brain was not boiling itself dry. It was a collection of contradictions, and that was half of what was making him mad. His pairings of extremes had just reached the critical point when they vanished; there was only stillness, only calm. The silence in his head was deafening.

Loud and resonant, a single voice pierced the quiet. Escthta could hear it and understand it, though it spoke nothing he knew. It was deep and thrumming, the sound of the machinery of the universe moving along its track. Escthta was cold and naked in the vast eye of Creation with nothing but his ears to guide him. He heard the stars carrying on their ageless conversations and the planets indulging in their youthful banter. Small and barely audible, he heard the cries of thousands of races -there! The clicks and trills of yautja, the hissing screams of _kainde amedha_, the strange languages of the humans, the deep Bathyrian, all of them were here. Others he could not place, though their voices, the roars, the cries, the howls all rose together, a cacophonous choir from the stars and they were all singing just for him.

The medic watched his patient's breathing slow as they heaped the ice on him, and he kept a close watch on his vitals. The heartbeat was fluttery, erratic, and there was talk he'd be lost, that the venom had been fatal. But the fever evaporated one night, and the next morning, Escthta's eyes were open and he was alert enough to feed himself. The medical establishment doesn't ask for explanations of such phenomena; little did they know that the Bathyrian's second strike had saved Escthta's life.

The muscle replacement gel had already healed by the time Escthta was able to use his legs. The drainage tube and bandages were removed from his head, revealing his matching teardrop-shaped collections of pinprick scars. He reached down and touched his calf, discerning narrowly defined circles under the scars where nerve signals were no longer available. He excused himself from the medical wing, and the medic nodded as he left; the sick wing was only for those who could not walk; once they were mobile, they were expected to take care of themselves.

**xXx**

By Escthta's reckoning, he'd been out of action for almost two weeks. The fortnight's stay in the hospital had left him itchy and feeling utterly filthy. The sponge-offs he'd gotten from the medics hadn't completely rid him of that awful smell in the cesspool. Repulsed at his own scent, he caught a car outside the infirmary and directed the computer to the public baths. His skin felt like it was fairly crawling with parasites, and he shuddered, barely able to stomach the idea of being in his own skin.

The public bathhouse was a sprawling complex near the northern edge of the City, built around a series of natural springs. Untold numbers of slaves were employed in keeping the baths incredibly clean and ridding the Hunters of parasites. Though their skin was relatively smooth, it was very sensitive. Yautja were vulnerable to mites that burrowed into their skin and inflamed the area around them into dark green lesions. Hunters dehydrated very easily and their skin suffered, flaking and itching when the air was too dry. The baths seemed nearly deserted; it seemed that the Council was holding hearings on the criminals, the Bad Blood. Most yautja enjoyed the hearings, since many of their comrades were murdered by Bad Bloods and the feeling of vindication was a rare and priceless emotion.

He had no problems finding the bathmaster, who arranged for his services; a full grooming including the re-braiding of his hair and a de-lousing. He scrubbed himself hard in the showers, and cringed when his fingertips passed over the raised bumps where mites were sure to be buried, sucking away his blood. When he was clean, a slave led him to a private room, where two groomers waited. One held a metal comb, and Escthta could see the length of his nails, cut into long needles; the longer the nails used in the braid, the finer the braid. He stood, naked, and suffered through the braiding process. He kept an eye on the ranking rings- he had known of some braiders that stole them. The braider was quick, and though it was as painful as always, the whole ordeal was over in just an hour. His new dreadlocks were tight, smooth and the rank rings were put back in place perfectly. The braider left before Escthta could thank him. Only as the mite-remover was pulling mites out of his back did he realize that the braider, a slave, would never expect to be thanked. They were stripped of personal privileges in slavery, as well as names. The nameless groomer finished, giving Escthta a bath pass, a curt nod and removing the dish filled with small insects to the waste disposal.

Escthta fastened a loincloth, the only attire required, around his hips and lazily strolled to the main baths for a soak in the mineral baths. The bath pass told the attendant he was insect-free and he was allowed in and pointed to the medicated baths to heal his lesions. A yell caught his attention. "Escthta!" He looked toward the source and found Cthinde waving him over to his bath. Rithc'te had already joined him, and he looked much improved from his battle with the Queen. Escthta stepped gingerly into the steaming water, but soon sank into the water easily, accepting the sting of the minerals in his wounds as a necessary evil.

"Those mites are a pain, aren't they?" Cthinde looked at the dark green speckles on Escthta's back. "They got under my harness." Cthinde turned, showing the shadow of mite lesions in the shape of his harness on his back and side. Escthta leaned back against the stone walls, looking across the bath at Rithc'te. "I see you're healing nicely." Rithc'te grunted, and didn't open his eyes or move. Escthta looked at Cthinde and then back at Rithc'te. He sighed and then closed his eyes. "So, what happened while I was out?" He was eager to get back up to speed; missing half the Council disappointed him greatly. He looked forward to all the information from all over the galaxy, and having missed half of it brought his spirits down.  
"Well, they're keeping the naming of Leaders for last, as usual. There are 3 Leaderships available for this Council." Cthinde grinned widely at Escthta."Of course, you're a candidate. You got the Guard's skull, after all. Trophies during a Queen's capture are difficult to get. You scored big." Escthta closed his eyes, leaving Cthinde speechless."How did you know?"  
Escthta shrugged, rolling his shoulders in the hot water. "I just do."Rithc'te's mandibles twitched softly, and the fleshy folds inside his mouth hummed softly. The snoozing yautja was oblivious. Cthinde rolled his eyes. "He's been doing that all day. I'd rather bathe with a rhynth. Might be more talkative."  
Escthta chuckled. "You just can't stand the quiet, can you, Cthinde?"  
Cthinde looked affronted. "I just can't stand yautja that sleep all day. It's disgusting." Escthta didn't respond. Cthinde leaned back and tucked his arms behind his head. "I'll tell you one thing, though. Those females get better every year." With his arms out of the water, Escthta could see the scratches and abrasions that were the hallmarks of mating. Cthinde had an unusual amount of them and Escthta could not quash his morbid curiosity. "How many times?" Cthinde howled with satisfaction. "Five!"  
Escthta winced in sympathetic pain. "Five in two weeks is a bit much. I'm surprised you can stand."  
Cthinde looked nonchalant, rubbing his most recent set of wounds on his chest. "And no broken bones, either." Escthta's mandibles clattered. "What, did you get all virgins?" Cthinde laughed loud, throwing back his head. "And they're ruined for life, Escthta, ruined!" Escthta shook his head, sighing and settling his head back down on the edge of the bath. Cthinde's eyes slid over to his friend, and he played his trump card. "But no one's had your female yet. Unless she's been engaged today." Escthta opened one eye, looking at Cthinde. "My female?"  
"The giant you were eyeing at the Opening Ceremonies. I think she's been holding back."  
"Oh." He'd forgotten about her- all his dreams had been dark and violent lately, and he had very few pleasurable thoughts apart from the welcoming blankness of wakefulness. He suddenly remembered her in a rush, and he opened his tusks to scent the air in spite of himself. Cthinde cackled. "You do remember her." Escthta breathed in slowly, clearing his head of the desire. He closed his eyes and was lulled to sleep by the sounds of the bath: the softly lapping water, the sizzle of hot rocks in the baths. It soothed him, and for the first time in several days, he felt completely at peace.

**xXx**

When he awoke, Cthinde and Rithc'te were both gone. He stretched in the water and rubbed his shoulders, feeling the lesions from his mites almost completely healed; without the parasites there to irritate the skin, it took care of itself rather quickly. The bath had quieted down and he stood in the water, pulling his dreadlocks back behind him. He climbed up out of the bath and began ambling slowly toward the exit, feeling utterly content. He slowly became aware that he was not alone in the baths. He stopped in his tracks, his claws dripping water on the stone floors. He turned his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder, and then turned around to face his opponent.

The enormous female stood in front of him, unmasked, and wearing the simple wrap of the bathhouse. It barely fit her huge frame, leaving little coverage for her breasts and the dusky skin of her thighs. Escthta opened his mandibles and scented the air, and was almost overcome with her fragrance. It curled up into his brain and wrapped tight around his pleasure centers, and his body responded. He sucked in more of the air, trying to scent her readiness. She was close. Very close. But it wasn't the scent that told him this. He somehow knew her mind, and he could feel her heartbeat quickening its pace as if it were his own.

"Da-kvar'di," he said, knowing it was her name, but unable to tell how he knew. Her trill, the small muted call of pleasure was music to his ears. It was delicate and feminine, and so attractive in a female of such size and power. His body responded strongly again, urging him to tackle her to the ground. He breathed out slowly, and he began to slide into a battle stance. To his delight, she crouched in a _hiju_ as well, and the wrap, already strained, came unclipped. It fell to the ground, leaving Escthta breathless with her beauty.

Her muscles were held high, in taut relief, and they twitched involuntarily in preparation for his attack. Her breasts were the small, Spartan mounds he'd come to adore. Their flattened shape spoke of her readiness to breed; it meant she had no other sucklings to demand her attention. Her mottled thighs were equally firm, and that patch of darkened skin between them invited his gaze. Escthta's eyes traveled down her length and he at last found the reason for her name, "hunting knife". Her spurs were large and, it appeared, sharpened. He could imagine why; no male would be able to resist her.

Finally, he too, was unable to resist- he threw back his head and made the mating call, the deep, coughing bellow of a male who has found an available female. She roared back at him, accepting his challenge, and they sprang toward each other, each hot with the desire for battle- and each other.

The sounds of exertion filled the large bath chambers, the grunts and roars echoing off the stones. Slaves stopped on their way through and watched the lovers fight, wistful at their carefree courtship. Da-kvar'di was terrible and exquisite; they struggled together, their arms locked, each straining against the other's strength. Escthta stepped aside, flipping her over his head, and turning to try and pin her to the ground. But her form was perfect- she landed in a crouch and sprang forward as he turned. The impact knocked the wind from him, and he winced as she kicked on top of him, her spur leaving a line of green down his thigh. "Careful, now," he admonished, "Wouldn't want to hurt anything." Da-kvar'di's tusks widened in excitement and Escthta took the opportunity to slide his hand up her side gently, his claws plucking her nerves and leaving them singing with sensation. She growled softly, and he took advantage of her distraction to crack his skull against hers. She cried out and he pushed her off of him, taking deep breaths and preparing for his next assault.

Da-kvar'di snarled, blinking as she shook off his last attack. She stepped close, trying short, sharp blows. Escthta matched each one, parrying some and blocking others. The occasional blow snuck through, and he winced as she hit him in the chest. It might be a cracked rib or just a deep bruise, but either way, he'd be feeling it for days. She turned, bringing her leg up in a high-split and dropping her spurred heel on Escthta's shoulder like an axe. The spur punched deep into his muscle and Escthta bellowed in agony. Da-kvar'di's face looked unbearably smug, and she jerked her heel into his muscle. He yelped as the spine grazed bone, but saw his chance. Gripping her leg, he pushed it up. Her balance failed, and she fell backwards. Escthta pulled aside his loincloth and moved up inside her before she could defend herself. She yowled in disappointment, but having lost the fight, curled her legs around his waist and pulled him closer. Escthta's body was on fire, and surrounded by her, his lungs filled with her scent, it was only a few moments before he lost control. The most beautiful face he'd ever seen hissed and she separated from him, crouching and growling low in her throat. Escthta sat in a half-crouch, exhausted and bleeding. Da-kvar'di's aggression decayed into a gentle regard as the estrus lifted, and Escthta's child began to grow. She lay on her side, and Escthta's breathing quickened again to see her long, muscular body stretched out on stone. He sat some meters away, his lust sated, but his body broken. It definitely was a cracked rib; he'd probably spend another week in the infirmary.

Da-kvar'di's trill brought his mind off of his pain. "How did you know my name?" Her voice was a dark, rich alto, slightly husky after their mating. Escthta clicked softly at her. "I can tell many things, it seems," he replied. Although the information being suddenly available confused him, the possession of it felt good. He loved having this knowledge and however it was coming to him, he didn't want it to stop. He dared not name his ability, for fear it would be lost.

Da-kvar'di stretched and rose to one knee, making ready to leave. Escthta grimaced; he needed to get to the infirmary and have his chest bound. "Wait," he grunted as she turned to go. She stopped, lingering until he drew up even with her. He looked up at her, knowing that the afterglow was going to quickly turn into annoyance, and his minutes with her were limited. Her eyes were a languid green, soft with emotion. "The midwife will be waiting for me," she offered, beginning to walk away. It was a valid excuse, but Escthta was not satisfied. He caught her hand and received an angry cuff on the side of his head. He growled softly at her. "Why would a creature like you want me? You could have had anyone you wanted." Da-kvar'di was thoughtful, and when she spoke, it was a quiet tone which Escthta had not heard out of any female. "The Bathyrian spared your life. Any warrior that creature could not kill is a sire I want for my child."


	4. Mind of the Beast

**xXx**

Seven yautja sat with grave expressions on their faces. Tjat'le was silent, and the others spoke in low voices, even though they were in their chambers. It was essential that no one be aware of their conversation.

Ren'da was perhaps the most level-headed of the group; he had served as an Arbiter for at least a hundred years before becoming a Council member. "Noskor, are you sure? There hasn't been a Psionic for at least a century."

Noskor looked across the triangular table at Ren'da, his blind eye steady in its appraisal of him. "I took Escthta on as my pupil while I traveled with that Clan. I know him better than anyone else. And I say that the Bathyrian did something to him."

Bruyaun spluttered, his usual response to information that directly contradicted his narrow worldview. "Well, then we can't Hunt the Bathyrian, can we? Can't have Psionics running around all over the place. Chaos would break out! It would be madness!" The Councilman had a slight froth about his mandibles, and his eyes were shifty. He'd grown fond of his plush lifestyle as a Council member and it seemed to him that anything out of the ordinary would threaten his job security. And a Psionic was very out of the ordinary.

"We don't even know if he's a Psionic. Why are we making all this fuss?" Bruyaun cast about desperately for a reasonable alternative.

"Isn't it better to be prepared, Bruyaun? Or would you rather he steal your Council seat from underneath you?" Ghanede was a quiet yautja, and he reminded Noskor of Escthta, although the former had a more cautious nature, while Escthta trusted his instincts. Ghanede was a hold-over from ancient times, a strategist who specialized in fanning flames. He was referring to an ancient law of challenge which allowed the victor to take possession of all ranks and privileges of the defeated. He took a perverse pleasure in giving Bruyaun fits. "I say we bring him in, question him, test him."

"I agree." The other 'silent' member of the Council, the scientist Thtarok, spoke up. "The last Psionic was most uncooperative. This one presents an opportunity for further study, as we have found him while he is young." Calling the last Psionic 'most uncooperative' was an understatement; few could forget how uncooperative he was.

The most trophied warrior on the Council, the Hunter Kvar'ye broke his silence. "You're really saying we can't afford to have him loose without supervision."

Thtarok steepled his hands. "Psionics are notorious for being... difficult."

Ghanede snorted. "You mean mad. They're crazy. Never been one who wasn't." He turned to Tjat'le, who had been watching the discussion with hooded eyes. "We don't even know what his abilities are, Liege. He could tear us apart if he wanted to."

"Or he may only be capable of simple telepathy," interjected Noskor. Thirteen eyes turned to Thtarok.

"Well, the abilities of Psionics have not been historically consistent. Some have been only empaths, able to sense feelings. Some have been monsters, capable of telekinesis as well as telepathy."

Tjat'le's voice was low. "What seems to be the determining factor?"

Thtarok bowed his head slightly as he considered his mental rote on Psionics. He hesitated before answering. "Like many things, we think it has something to do with lineage as well as upbringing." Tjat'le turned to Noskor. "Are you aware of his sire's identity?"

Noskor shook his head slowly. "Paternal records are spotty at best, Liege."

Tjat'le was deceptively quiet, and then his face twisted in rage and he slammed his fist down on the table.

"Dammit, I want to know what this kid is and I want to know now!" There was silence around the room; no one knew how to answer his demand. "Where the fuck is Hir'cyn? He was supposed to be here by now!" Tjat'le's temper grew even more roused, and all eyes fell on Kvar'ye. He traditionally spoke up to end Tjat'le's tirades, but Kvar'ye seemed distracted. "Thtarok," he began slowly, "Are Psionics allowed to breed?"

Thtarok exhaled loudly. "Traditionally, no. We know it runs in families, so by keeping them from breeding, we avoid the unpleasant consequences." All of them knew what unpleasant consequences there could be. And all of them cringed inwardly at the thought. It was enough to lift the veil of anger from Tjat'le and he sighed. "If his father or mother was a Psionic, it's possible they bred before the Council became aware of them. Everyone knows Psionics are disturbed; that's why they report them. That's why they're controlled. Things would collapse without that control." He rose from his chair abruptly, beginning to pace. It soothed his mind and allowed him to bring all his thought to bear on the problem. "So it comes down to this: execution or containment?"

Noskor's blind eye moved toward Tjat'le, weighing him down with his stare. "Tjat'le, there hasn't been an execution in a century. We're not going to start it up again. If word gets out about an execution, there'll be nothing to stop wholesale slaughter!"

Tjat'le grunted in half-agreement. "So, containment, then?"

Thtarok chattered quietly. "Containment hasn't been an option. Telekinetics can throw bolts, move whatever they wish. It would be child's play for him to escape."

Ghanede lifted his head from where it rested on his chest and then leaned forward, propping his elbows up on the table. "Escape. That's it."

Tjat'le turned, his rank rings clinking softly."What's it?"

Ghanede widened his tusks in a small smirk. "You just said that he would escape. Isn't that the whole problem? If we treat him like a prisoner, he'll act like one, won't he?"

A few grudging nods from around the table prompted Ghanede to continue. "So, let's not treat him like one. If he thinks he hasn't been detected, he may go on pretending to be undetected."

Bruyaun choked. "Don't you think that kind of attitude is a little... dangerous?"

Tjat'le turned to Noskor. "You know Escthta best, Noskor. Would this kind of strategy be effective?"

Noskor nodded slowly. "Escthta has an intense hunger for knowledge. If we were to send him on some sort of fact-finding expedition, it would probably keep him in line."

Tjat'le frowned. "With the bonus that he might be killed while on it." He paused and then sighed. "As long as he doesn't find out too much. Then we would have to kill him, Psionic or not."

Noskor nodded again. "If it comes to that, I will take care of him personally, Liege."

Tjat'le grunted. "See that you do." He turned to Thtarok. "You should work with Noskor to give this some measure of authenticity."

Thtarok looked offended. "What the hell am I supposed to do with him?"

Tjat'le shrugged and waved his hand in a dismissive motion. "Send him to some backwater planet. You know the hives and the human settlements. If you can find a world with both, so much the better."

Thtarok's ability to fund research was limited. As it was, he had to seize on this Psionic to get some actual work done. He had proposed one or two research projects with humans involved, but Kvar'ye had interceded against them, arguing that humans were for Hunting, not studying. "I think I can come up with something, Liege. As long as it has your full support."

"Do what you must."

**xXx**

The Council gathered for the last time. One month had passed since the fight with the Bathyrian. One month had passed since the Psionic had been discovered. Measures had been taken, arrangements had been made. It was time to announce Leaderships and Hunts for the next two years. All of the Clans were in attendance, eager to find out their hunts and who would be chosen as new Leaders. New Leaders had the luxury of being able to accept or turn down Hunts until they got one they wanted. All of them were hoping for a good Hunt where the enemies would be fierce and the skulls beautiful.

Tjat'le looked down at the pool of thirty-odd Leadership candidates, knowing that one of them was Escthta's compatriot. He did not like awarding valuable Leaderships to inexperienced Blooded, and one as young as this would be inexperienced. But higher prices had been paid in blood for ignoring the threat a Psionic posed, so a ship might be considered an acceptable ransom to save the Council a headache later. He allowed himself a small smirk as he looked down at the array of tusked faces. Of these, three new Clans would be formed. It was the largest number of new Clans in one Council in the past century. He could tell that each of them was sizing up everyone else, picking out who they would want in their Clan. It was puerile behavior, but some measure of comfort was required in a Clan, or it would fall apart. For the last time, at least until the next Council, Tjat'le lifted his arms, palms out, and used his voice to command silence.

"Today, we decide who among these most honored has earned the right to become a Leader and Hunt as he may." He regretted his words immediately, as one of the Leaderships was contrived to keep Escthta as far away from the homeworld as possible. "Their feats have not gone unrecognized." He gestured vaguely.

"Isaraun, Sae'ki'da and Cthinde. You have been recognized. Step forward!" The arena was deafened by the roars of yautja, their congratulations for the chosen Hunters. The ones not selected formed a group at the rear of the platform, milling about and each silently sizing up one of the new Leaders as the one he would choose to go with. "Isaraun, for your outstanding trophy wall and clear thinking in the Tiir Incident-" At this, a tall, thin Yautja stepped forward and roared in acceptance of his Leadership. It was as much the final test of his selection as anything else; this roar established him as a force to be reckoned with. It was larger than he seemed capable of producing, and many of the Hunters who were not selected had already begun to move toward their choice. "-Sae'ki'da, for your devoted research on Hunting worlds-" Sae'ki'da was a scientist, although he did not look it. He was short, by yautja standards, but barrel-chested. His roar of acceptance was deep and throaty, and it earned him a few followers, who drifted to his side. "-And Cthinde, for your outstanding performance in a Queen's capture, taking a Praetorian skull and losing only 5 to her claws." Cthinde threw back his head and roared as loud as he could, and although it lacked the deepness of Sae'ki'da, his volume and projection were excellent; those who had not made their choices from the other two had no qualms about choosing him. In all, Cthinde ended up with nine Hunters under his command. Many were older than he, but Cthinde was not about to let that intimidate him. He had earned his Leadership, and he was going to make the best of it.

Many had already started moving toward the exits, eager to receive their Hunting assignments, which were already aboard the ships. Cthinde looked around for Escthta, who was nowhere to be found. "Cthinde," interrupted Tjat'le, "Your friend is already onboard your ship with your assignment." Cthinde turned to his men. "She will be called the Fang! To the _Zanna_!"

**xXx**

The newly-formed Clan boarded the _Zanna_ to find Escthta with her systems already primed and running. Cthinde stepped forward and clasped his friend's arm about the wrist. "Where's our Hunting assignment?" Escthta chattered. "The Council wants us to canvass a new system." A chorus of disappointed curses went up from the Hunters behind Cthinde, who didn't look too pleased himself. "Why were we given such a low-priority assignment?" Escthta's tusks twitched slightly. "There are three planets capable of supporting life. One, Craxan Prime, already has a human base and there are unconfirmed reports of a hive." Cthinde's disappointed expression evaporated. _Pyode_ and _kainde amedha _at the same time; it would be a glorious Hunt. The other Hunters were pleased as well; normally Hunts were segregated from each other and every effort was made to keep the Soft and Hard Meats from interacting. One usually involved the decimation of the other, which was no good for Hunting. Bagthak, a Blooded with a background in navigation, stepped forward. "Where is this world?"

Escthta turned to him. "Out past Tiir."

Bagthak chattered with interest. "It should be crawling with hard meat, then." He paused and then frowned. "What is an ooman settlement doing out there? They should know better than that by now." He used the derogatory term in exasperation. Human settlements had already suffered large losses against what they called the "bugs"; it didn't make sense that they would continue to settle in areas known to have hives, especially when the kainde amedha were more able to seed worlds than most species.

Escthta shrugged. "That's part of our mission. Maybe they've found a mineral resource that we haven't yet. Either way, we're to collect information about the humans and their activities, as well as any local hives. Of course, recreational Hunting is allowed along the way." Bagthak gave a short nod, and his acceptance of the mission prompted others to find their quarters on the _Zanna_. Escthta breathed out slowly. He hadn't told them the other part of their mission.

**xXx**

"Why do we need to study humans at all?"

Thtarok turned to look at Escthta, who was only slightly taller than himself. The tall yautja had long dreadlocks that ended at the small of his spine and he had many rank rings in spite of his youth. His mottled skin was pale and sallow, but the black pigments remained dark and rich, looking like dark splotches of ink on parchment. Escthta scorned the newer sash-style trophy harnesses; his garb was distinctly antique, consisting of an old-style chest harness with rings lining the sides for attaching small trophies. Even his loincloth was of an older style; it lacked the armored codpiece that was in vogue now, and had instead a cloth one with armored tassets. Combined with his large lower mandibles and austere face, Escthta looked every bit the ancient warrior-stoic, who Hunted not only to bring himself honor, but to enslave lesser races and spread Paya's word.

"Humans are very devious creatures, Escthta. Their intelligence has come into question, namely by Kvar'ye." Thtarok lifted a small skull from his trophy wall, cradling it gently in his hands. "Kvar'ye doesn't believe they should be given any sort of deference. He thinks they're too stupid, almost too stupid for Hunting."

Escthta snorted. "We've seen they can solve problems and make critical thought decisions. The Tiir Incident proved that."

Thtarok smiled gently, still facing away from Escthta. The younger Hunter's mention of the unfortunate incident on Tiir 3 was bang on; it proved that humans had complex problem-solving abilities. Now if only Kvar'ye would listen to him. "Kvar'ye is a very old brand of warrior, Escthta. He wants only the best adversary, regardless of what species that might be."

Escthta's silence was awkward. "You mean he'd prefer to hunt yautja."

Thtarok almost dropped his trophy. Escthta was amazingly adept; if he was not a Psionic, he was damned intuitive. He turned, a lift in his brow. "A Hunter is, after all, the most dangerous prey."

Escthta stood. "Kvar'ye would want to Hunt yautja regardless. That's why he brings in the Bad Bloods." He regarded Thtarok silently, and Thtarok feared for a moment that his brains were being picked for information. "But you think that proving the intelligence of humans would cripple his support," Escthta continued.

Thtarok nodded almost imperceptibly. "We also know little of their reproductive cycle. We don't know the length of gestation, or how long the young are dependent on their mother. They do seem to live in family units, but at what point that stops becoming family and starts becoming convenience is unclear."

Escthta chattered. "You want a test subject."

Thtarok chuckled, glad that he didn't have to come out and say it. "You're very perceptive."

Escthta didn't reply. Thtarok pushed his shoulder in the gesture of greeting and acknowledgement. "Bring me back a female. If you can get a male, that's also good, but the child-bearer is more important."

**xXx**

Escthta paused outside Cthinde's quarters. He had debated not telling Cthinde about the second part of their mission at all, but he would need his friend's help if he was to smuggle a human on board. A human female, no less. He was unsure what they looked like, or how they were different from males, since both had mammaries and both seemed capable of combat. It remained to be seen whether the human females were as combative as yautja females. He chuckled softly, thinking of Da-kvar'di and winced at the pain in his side from her last gift to him. No human could hold a candle to all that power, all that fury. Yautja females were matchless Hunters to be respected and avoided at all costs. If human females were anything like their yautja counterparts, he was going to have his hands full.

Cthinde was sitting in his bunk, his legs stretched out. He looked up as Escthta entered the room, and then grinned widely. "Isn't the ship great? It's enormous! Have you seen the hold? There's already a Queen here!" Escthta held up his hand gently to silence the outpouring of effervescence. "There are other things, Liege." Cthinde paused at the title, realizing that his friend calling him by such a honorable name meant that things were not as they should be. "There are other elements to our mission that I did not want to discuss in front of the Clan." That too, felt strange, keeping things from the Clan. In such a tightly knit group, honesty was paramount; their chemistry practically barred them from lying as their musk would give away their true emotions.

"Thtarok did have one condition when he awarded us this Hunting assignment." Escthta paused. "This is a scientific expedition, with Hunting 'on the side'. All he asked is that we bring back a sample."

Cthinde stared blankly at his friend. Escthta coughed politely. "A living sample." His friend showed no response. "He wants us to bring back a human female."

Cthinde stared at his friend and then his tusks widened, almost imperceptibly, in aggression. "Why do we have to do that? This is a Hunting ship, not an ark."

Escthta snorted at Cthinde's ignorant reference to the myth. "The Ark did have a purpose, Cthinde, and you seem to have forgotten it. Paya set that Ark afloat on the Sea of Eternity. It carried within its fold all the great races of the universe, but She bestowed upon us, her favorites, the ability to Hunt them. From Her we receive all our knowledge and all our strength. It is not a crime to know Her works, Cthinde, and the fact that you view discovery of Her glory as a minor chore while you bloody your hands with destruction is a sign of how this Leadership has changed you already!"

Escthta's voice had risen to an unbearable level; the yautja's eyes were wild with fervor and it gave Cthinde pause. He had never seen his friend so worked up about something. Escthta's anger whistled out of him like a punctured skin. "We are finding new worlds and going on new Hunts, Cthinde. You and I have both experienced the thrill of hunting in jungles and swamps. We both know that only when we understand Paya's gifts in their natural setting can we fully appreciate them on our trophy wall. Please understand that." Cthinde nodded, unable to speak. Escthta walked calmly out of Cthinde's quarters, and Cthinde was quiet for long moments afterward.

**xXx**

Escthta's dreams that night were full of darkness and voices. It was not a nightmare, for he was not afraid, though some of the voices said terrible things. They spoke of murder and lust and dishonor, and he recoiled from them and their cold discussion of war and killing. There was no warmth in their discussion of death, no affection for the Thrill of the Hunt, no respect for their adversary. It was blind hatred and it disgusted him. There were other conversations as well, and he eavesdropped on them carelessly.

"But they will never know-"

"I hate them."

"Why should they? They're idiots."

"They kill my children."

"They only think of breeding."

"There is someone here."

"My sisters disappear."

"Who are you?" This last voice was directed at him, he realized with a start, and he did not know how to answer. The voice was deep and never-ending, and he was stunned and a little scared by its range. "WHO. ARE. YOU?" It brooked no opposition, and Escthta could not help but think he was a little out of place in this dreamworld discussion.

"You are new here." A form took shape in his mind, a familiar, revolting mass of tentacles with eyes like obsidian. The Bathyrian hovered, enormous in his mind's eye, shadowing him as it never had in real life. "You are that creature." It flicked one of its prime tentacles to Escthta's temple, stroking it gently with a gelatinous bud. Escthta jerked; he had not realized he had form in this dream. "So you do have the ability. I could not be sure of Oggohlb's message, but you would appear to be the one he spoke of. The tentacle turned the stunned yautja's head aside. "I see he was not tender with you in administering his venom." He withdrew his prime tentacle and at last Escthta could find the wherewithal to wonder why.

"Oggohlb." He struggled with the strangeness of the name. "Is he the creature in the tank?"

The Bathyrian seemed to nod. "I am Yugmnelsh. I control the thoughtpaths of this universe. Oggohlb's time is limited, but he mentioned that he found a lower lifeform capable of Speech."

Escthta turned indignant. "Lower lifeform!"

Yugmnelsh did not rise to the bait. "Your species is not capable of telepathic Speech, and it has not evolved ways of communicating with those capable of it. Explain how such a species deserves the consideration of higher lifeforms."

Escthta was quiet, and he could not think of an answer. It was true that the yautja were not ambassadors of goodwill toward the universe, but he had a certain respect for other lifeforms.

"Killing them does not bring them honor." Yugmnelsh's bass tones interrupted him, and he finally realized that his thoughts were clear as crystal to the massive creature.

"Yes." The Bathyrian's terse answer confirmed his suspicions. It meant that he must also be capable of telepathic thought, or he would not be able to reply.

"That is also true, although Oggohlb's venom is not yet completely worked through your brain. If you have other abilities, they will come in due time."

"Other abilities?"

The Bathyrian's unfathomable black eyes moved a membrane across themselves, and he moved closer to Escthta, encircling him with tentacles. Escthta could see the mouth now, under the edge of the half-domed skull, lined with threatening teeth. "You were administered the venom because Oggohlb sensed in you the potential for Psionic ability. This method is more forceful than allowing the ability to awaken naturally, but if one has a chance, one should not pass it up."

"So this is why I've been able to hear all these things, all these conversations."

"Yes."

"What do I do with them? Why do I have them?"

The silence was deafening and Escthta thought he could see the coils of flesh becoming more transparent. At length, Yugmnelsh's voice rumbled out again as the tentacles faded from mind.

"You have been given a gift. How you use it is up to you."

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Much love to Drakonlily, for helping me find the name of Cthinde's ship. Also much love to Solain Rhyo, who has been eternally patient with me. And finally, to Chocobo Goddess for leaving such an awesome review._


	5. Undoing the Ties

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _See author's notes at the end._

**xXx**

That people were getting ill was 'unfortunate', but the demand for carbauxite was high enough that it was considered a secondary concern. Craxan Prime was currently the largest producer of planetary carbauxite known; most was mined from asteroids in asteroid fields by machines. The discovery of a huge carbauxite deposit- it was massive, not just a vein- the size of an Earth continent was enough incentive for Weyland-Yutani to ignore the bug threat, though they knew best the risks involved.

They hadn't counted on the viral infections that mine workers developed; in the presence of the natural and normally benign viruses humans had introduced to Craxan Prime, carbauxite fragments in the air presented an especially wicked threat. No longer merely the bringer of miner's lung, the carbauxite interacted with the human-originated Craxan viruses and produced neurotoxins on a vast scale. Mine workers began dropping like flies, each showing the same symptoms, each developing what the medical profession called pseudocoma. They became prisoners of their own minds, unable to communicate with the outside world while the viruses created spine and brain lesions that removed their ability to speak, swallow and move on their own. It eventually invaded the cerebellum, the seat of the most basic life functions. Once this final phase of the illness had begun, death was swift.

Weyland-Yutani's stock was devastated by the discovery of these workers, but as the disease was not communicable, they continually seduced new workers to Craxan Prime to mine the carbauxite for its precious titanium and aluminum. Earth's commercially viable deposits had been exhausted years before, and it was essential for the space industry as well as many others that new sources be found. They offered two-year contracts with an enormous bonus payable on completion. Of course, few ever collected those bonuses, and fewer still were well enough to put the money to work on their dreams. The risks were accepted by miners and their families, though many snake-oil salesmen used their fears to sell used military gas masks to the miners.

Those families which did not have miners in them associated with entirely different groups of people- the miners and their families formed a tightly knit community and helped each other when the "Craxan flu" began to take its toll.

**xXx**

"How is Jake?" The question was one that Anise Latham fielded often, and the answer was always the same: "He's doing fine, thank you." The inquisitive person this time was Mrs. Parrinder, the wife of the man who ran the commissary. She asked every time Anise came into town, and every time, Anise answered the same way. She tried to be patient with the older woman's constant inquiries, but it was well known that those who got the Craxan flu went downhill fast. Besides, the skylanders always pretended to be interested in miner affairs. Mae Parrinder had a son who was a miner, but they didn't talk or get together for holidays. There was an unavoidable rift in relations between the non-miner skylanders and the miners and it even cut families apart.

Anise smiled warmly at Mae. "We're doing our best to keep things positive." She collected her groceries and Jake's prescriptions from the counter and carried them out into the glaring sunlight. The heat of the Craxan sun was nothing like Sol; the atmosphere of Craxan Prime was thinner than Earth's, but it was further from its star. The resulting sunlight had a cold burn to it- though it was only twenty-two degrees Centigrade, Anise could feel her face warming from the UV. She pushed her chin-length dark hair behind one ear, sliding on the dark glasses that protected her eyes. She needed to get home as soon as possible; she didn't like leaving Jake alone for too long. She climbed into the field skiff and turned it on. The car hummed to life and lifted off the dusty concrete outside the commissary. She was turning it around, when someone shouted to her.

"ANISE!" It was Lucas Parrinder, Mae's skylander son. He ran toward the skiff, holding his arm up against the small wind the craft generated. "Mom said you needed help with your hydroponics rig out at the house," he yelled over the noise. Anise nodded slowly. "I'll comm you about it later! I have to get home to Jake!" She accelerated the skiff out toward the open prairies before he could reply. Lucas had been very attentive since last year. Anise looked down at her left hand, knowing her ring was still there under her driving gloves, though Scott had died months ago.

The majority of Craxan prairies were full of a hardy type of razorgrass that had thick blades fortified against the brutal sun. It had a tendency to cut open exposed skin at the slightest touch, so full bodysuits were usually required for any kind of trip between the compounds. Anise reached down and thumbed up the altitude on the skiff, lifting the craft above the grass and into the cool western breeze. She leaned back in her chair, letting one hand guide the skiff in an easy cruise. It had been a long night and she had made groceries this morning with barely an hour of sleep. The hydroponics rig was indeed acting up, but she was sure that Harvey would be able to look at it. Lucas was a nice guy, but he was a skylander; he just couldn't understand.

The hatch that lead to her underground compound was a dusty, filthy expanse of metal on the lee side of a small barren rise in the razorweed prairies. The rise was crowned with a small communications tower; Anise squinted up against the sun and saw that the power light was still on its slow fading cycle. She hurried over to the hatch and opened the control box, punching in her code. The double doors creaked open uncertainly and Anise used the remote unit to guide the car into the compound.

"Welcome home, Ms. Latham." Anise smiled at the familiar voice. Harvey was her synthetic assistant for Jake, the last gift from Scott's death and injury compensation.

"Good to be home, Harvey." She jerked her head toward the garage. "If you would, please?"

Harvey smiled, that strange smile that seemed so forced on synthetics. "Of course."

Anise sighed and began moving toward the residential half of the compound. The hydroponics rig was in the other direction, but it could wait; she had to see Jake first.

He was in much the same condition as she'd left him. He always is, she reminded herself, feeling the sting of regret and sadness that it was always so. Her brother and Scott had worked alongside each other in the mines, each of them carrying the carbauxite ore in their powerloaders. Scott still kept watch over Jake from a picture frame near the bedside. Jake was sitting up in his chair, and Anise moved so that she was in front of his open eyes. "Hey there, big guy. How you doin'?"

There was, of course, no response. Jake's expression remained blank, his lips slightly slack and to one side. She leaned over and checked his waste bags. It looked like Harvey had just changed them; the bags were empty and the smell of excrement was absent. She silently blessed him for it, and patted Jake's hand, once thick and rough from work, now shrunken and chilled. She shook off the melancholy that began creeping over her at the thought of the inevitable.

"Got something from Weyland today. Want me to read it?" Jake blinked once. She stood, pulling out a small white envelope from her bodysuit's inside pocket. "Yeah, they're still printing these things on paper, can you believe it?" She opened the envelope and read from the letter,"Your disability claim is now being processed by our human resources department. You may be contacted to give a statement to our personnel. Please submit any and all medical bills, testimonials from medical professionals and members of the community." Anise's voice was matter-of-fact; the vagueness of the letter left much to the imagination, but it was identical to the letters that other miner families had received. Their claim was out of limbo and someone was actually going to help.

**xXx**

Two hundred miles to the north, a little over 2 hours by skiff, lay the mines. The entrance was a yawning black rent in the side of a mountain, and all the machinery was covered with carbauxite dust. Men wore masks; women did not work in the mines. Massive earthmovers collected the raw ore and dumped it onto a conveyor belt that hummed as it ferried the ore away to the ore refineries. They pushed deeper and deeper below the surface, gutting the ground with explosives and powerloaders. In their zeal for the metals contained in the ore, they were straying from the blasting plan, moving closer and closer to a subterranean Hell.

In the darkness, earth exploded, and nearby, something stirred.

**xXx**

Anise sighed, rubbing away the sweat on her forehead with her wrist. The hydroponics rig was indeed proving difficult to work with. The machine which dispensed nutrients was dispensing too much, burning the root systems of the water-growing plants. She leaned forward, looking at the pipe system and then at the timer apparatus, as if looking closer would reveal exactly what was wrong. The only explanation she could find was that the timer apparatus itself was busted. She shut off the pumping systems and disconnected the timer. With a screwdriver, she pried the lid off and looked inside. The valve cover seemed to seal okay, and the clock itself was still ticking, which meant the crystal motion was intact. She turned it around and over- and there was the problem. The small set of levers and gears which interfaced between the clock and the valve was missing a few teeth; it meant that the lever would be clicked open, but the next set of teeth to close it would come four hours later, after the nutrient supply was depleted and the plants had chemical burns. Anise sighed and stood, stretching her aching muscles. New timer units were not cheap, that was certain. However much it was, the money had to be found. Without these plants, their ability to survive was cut in half. Hefting the unit in her hand, she began walking toward the residential area.

The long stone corridors were unfinished, baring the rock; this part of the continent had once lain under an ancient sea, which left thick layers of limestone as their legacy. The sandstone layers that intertongued with the limestone held water, and the aquifers often wept into the limestone. Anise dragged her hand against the wall as she walked, collecting the faint moisture. Limestone did have the added disadvantage that the water that passed through it so well also dissolved it. It wouldn't happen fast enough to make any difference to Anise, but every so often, she would find small bumps in the stone where minerals accumulated. The carbauxite didn't extend this far; it was part of an enormous volcanic eruption below the surface that had happened millions of years ago.

She rubbed the back of her neck with the wet hand, grimacing at the stiffness in her neck. Her watch said she'd been down there working on that damn thing for over four hours. She needed a hot shower to get the grime off her. She paused at the junction of corridors, looking toward the garage. After only a moment's hesitation, she turned toward the cooler air. She'd only spend a moment outside the hatch, where it was cold. Her footsteps echoed around the garage, and the grating noise the doors made seemed especially loud. She paused again at the comm system before pressing the call button. "Harvey? I'm stepping outside for a moment."

A delay, and then, "Are you sure that's wise, Ms. Latham?"

She smiled at the concern in the synthetic's voice, even though it was part of his programming. "Yes, Harvey. I'll be fine." She let go of the call button and then tapped it again. "Figured out what was wrong with our garden."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Timer's junk." Silence stretched over the comm, and she could almost hear the synthetic running his accounting routines. "That'll be expensive," he finally replied.

"Yeah. Can't help it much, though. Got Jake's letter from Weyland today, so hopefully we can put it on credit and pay it off when they come through. I'll be outside, Harvey."

The night was cold, around six or seven degrees Centigrade, but it snapped her out of her funk and cleared her thinking. Her breath made fog in the air and she chafed her arms against the chill. The stars were clear and so bright; the dust between galaxies was easily visible; the nearest surface town was hundreds of miles away. She walked out to the edge of the clearing, looking up at the single visible satellite. Yun and Relith, the other two moons were on the far side of the planet; they wouldn't return until the next winter. She dearly missed their twin presence and felt halfway sorry for Caaj, the single moon. In the next five years, Caaj was scheduled to rejoin Yun and Relith due to differences in their revolutions, but five years was so long. Anise smoothed her arms, remembering. Five years ago she had been a blushing bride. Five years ago, her life had seemed like it was on the way up. And now, she was stuck on a backwater planet, a widow with a terminally ill big brother. She half-blamed herself for Jake being caught up in this in the first place. If she hadn't pushed him to take the job, he wouldn't be out here, dying from some bizarre viral infection.

Before he'd lost the ability to speak, Jake had told her it wasn't her fault. "I knew the risks when I came out here, Annie," he said from his wheelchair. The pet name choked her; he hadn't called her that in years. "Scott told me to make sure you were taken care of no matter what." He reached out and caught her hand. "No matter what."

Anise stood with her hand clapped over her mouth, her nostrils flaring as she tried to keep her breathing from breaking down into sobs. Squeezing her eyes tight to clear away the tears, she looked up to Caaj, the cold wind stinging her cheek. The razorgrass caught in the wind and the hardened stalks clattered against each other. But there was a break in the clattering, an inconsistency. As the wind died out, she turned around the clearing, checking carefully. It was silly to think of anything being there. The large carnivores didn't come this far south and they were too far from other compounds. She stepped backwards toward the doors, looking around her again. The air in one spot seemed to shimmer, but as soon as she tried to focus on it, it disappeared. Again, in another spot, and when she tried for a clearer view, it was gone. She rubbed her eyes and then turned to go inside. She'd been messing with the rig for too long; she just needed some sleep.

The hot shower helped; her muscles stopped suppressing their pain and became bona fide aches. She walked in to see Jake. Harvey had already moved him to his bed; she blessed the robot again for his assistance. Her slight build would never have accommodated Jake's large frame. The synthetic was arranging the hoses and diodes that were attached to her brother and he looked up when she wandered into the room. "How were things on the surface, Ms. Latham?"

She looked from Jake to Harvey. "Things were good. Cold as ever, but refreshing." She paused. "Feels like things are about to change."

Harvey looked at her with that passive stare. "Change? How so?"

"Something about the wind tonight seemed different." She shrugged. "It's probably this business with Weyland. It means a better life for all of us." She took Jake's hand and patted it. "Even you, big guy." Jake blinked and closed his eyes when Anise kissed his cheek.

**xXx**

The next morning broke bleak and grey. The cold wind of change of the night before brought in heavy layers of clouds; they had already dusted the razorweed with a fine mist of water. The razorweed had extended its moisture-gathering buds from inside their hardened husks to drink in the rain. The rain made music when it hit the hollow hulls, and Anise found herself making up accompaniments to the natural percussion. The car hovered out of the garage, its weather canopy open, shielding Anise from the elements. Of course, once she got moving, even the windshield wasn't going to help much, but whatever protection she could get would be welcome. Harvey watched her go from the compound doors.

"I'll be back soon, Harvey!" she yelled over the whirr of the skiff.

"Take care, Ms. Latham," he called back.

"No, YOU take care!" She laughed and accelerated the skiff off toward the east over the sodden prairies.

She emerged several hours later from the commissary feeling satisfied with herself. Her timer hadn't cost her the arm and the leg she thought it would; Weyland-Yutani had brokered a deal with the manufacturer for the benefit of the colonists here on Craxan Prime. It was uncharacteristically kind of the Weyland board, but she wasn't arguing. The cardboard box under her arm hadn't even been put on credit. She had enough money left over to treat herself. It wasn't something that she did often. Their money situation had been so tight lately that she hadn't dared give herself anything resembling luxury. She cast her eyes around the impromptu plaza that had grown up around the commissary. The diner that was set up for the skylanders looked promising, and she decided to allow herself a small splurge, just this once.

The diner smelled strongly of food, cigarette smoke and cooking grease. Anise made her way to the bar and sat down. The waitress sidled over.

"What'll it be, miss?"

Anise smiled softly at her; she felt she was entirely too old to be called 'miss', but it boosted her ego that someone still used the term for her. "A lemon ice, please."

The waitress smiled as she moved off. "First one of the summer. Coming right up."

Anise looked down at her hands, unwilling to meet the eyes of the skylanders that watched her. There had been few miners in here; Anise had spotted one in the back, but he was doing his best not to be noticed while he wolfed down a sandwich; must be his day off.

"Anise?"

She jerked her head to look at the speaker and found Lucas Parrinder. "What are you doing here, Lucas?"

Lucas shrugged toward the miner in the back. "Had to drop off something to my brother."

Anise looked at the miner. That would be Tyler Parrinder, then. She hadn't ever met him personally, but he had been Scott's supervisor in the mines and Scott had always spoken highly of him. She felt a twinge of sadness that families split by mining met each other in diners.

"Can I get you anything?"

Anise blinked and looked back at Lucas, suddenly desperate to avoid his easy blue eyes. "Actually, no, I was just leaving..."

The waitress set down the lemon ice in front of her and Anise smiled weakly while glaring daggers at her. "Thank you." She reached into her pocket for her credit chit and Lucas did the same.

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly, Lucas," she protested. Lucas had already waved his credit chit over the payment pad. She felt her shoulders fall as she heard the payment pad chime acceptance. "Thank you," she mumbled.

He smiled, his teeth gleaming whitely against his tanned skin. "I can afford a lemon ice for a beautiful woman." Anise felt herself flush to her roots and she reached for the small dish of lemon ice, lifting a spoonful and jamming it into her mouth so she wouldn't have to talk. Lucas inched closer to her and Anise felt her skin prickle even inside her full bodysuit.

"Look, I've been worried about you. So has Mom." His lowered voice took on a husky quality. Anise felt her heart speed up in spite of herself and she chanced a look at him. His eyes were filled with what looked like genuine concern, and she sighed. "Especially with all these disappearances lately."

Her ears perked. "Disappearances?"

Lucas nodded. "Men have been disappearing at the mines for the past two days. They clock in and they don't clock out. Kinda spooky, huh?"

Anise frowned. "Yeah. Spooky." The lemon ice was half-eaten, a softening mass of frozen sugar. She silently cursed herself for not staying in better touch with Jake's friends; then she would know that people had gone missing.

"Has anyone organized a search party or anything?"

"Where would they search? Come on, Anise, those mines stretch on for miles. If their locator chips aren't working, what can we do?"

"But-" She stopped, realizing he was right. "Have there been any disappearances in the sky- in town?" She corrected herself, although he seemed to ignore her slip.

"No, there haven't. They've got the militia armed and ready, though. Acid armor and everything." Anise felt her stomach turn. Acid armor only meant one thing: bugs. Lucas put his hand over hers, warming the chill off of it.

"Let me come out to your place and help you install that timer," he nodded to the box on the stool next to her, "and I can make you dinner. I promise I won't burn down your kitchen."

**xXx**

It had taken Lucas next to no time to gather her things together and carry them out to the skiff. Anise was fighting off what she recognized as "first date" tremors. She smiled nervously at him as she powered up the skiff. The rain had stopped, but the clearing sky was tinted with an early dusk. She pushed back the weather canopy while the skiff was idling, and then powered the skiff out toward the western prairies. Lucas sat next to her with an easiness she wished she felt. In all truthfulness, her stomach was in knots. She felt selfish for letting him buy the lemon ice, and guilty that she was actually beginning to want his company. No, she corrected herself. She felt guilty for wanting his company over Jake's. The companionship of a human, a real human that could talk and laugh, was something she had missed dearly.

She turned to look at him but something in the sky caught her attention. A cluster of meteors had entered the atmosphere; they were scattered far enough apart that each individual burning piece could be made out. Their trails of smoke and vapor widened after them as they fell toward the western horizon. Anise grunted. "Would you look at that."

Lucas looked up and then smiled. "Shooting stars," he answered.

Anise nodded, suddenly lost in thought. "You know," she began, "I thought they cleared out the system debris when they first got here. Weyland said something like it interfered with the mining ships."

Lucas grunted back. "I dunno. Maybe it's part of some space trash that fragmented?"

Anise nodded again. "Could be." After a moment of nothing but rushing wind in her ears, and the vapor trails continuing to fade, she nodded more firmly. "Yeah, that must be what it is."

Lucas looked out across the razorweed, a sea of grey green stalks now that their blue moisture buds had withdrawn. "How much further is it to your place?"

"About thirty minutes."

"Are you really okay all the way out here? Seems pretty isolated." Lucas' voice was colored with concern. Anise felt her insides warm and she couldn't suppress a small smile. "I have Harvey and Jake. They keep me company."

"I can't imagine their company is all that great. Harvey's an android and Jake's..." He trailed off, realizing what he was about to say. "Anise, I—"

"It's alright, Lucas. I know what you meant." She sighed, the sound lost in the wind. "To tell the truth, you hit the nail on the head. I have missed being part of a community, having the company of other women…" She gestured vaguely to include all the other thoughts left unspoken.

"So, why now?"

"Hmm?"

"What's so different about today that you didn't feel like you had to keep being alone?"

"I don't know. Felt like it was time for me to stop living in the past, I guess. Maybe I could find someone who wouldn't get the Craxan flu and they'd stick around long enough for me to make some memories." At first, the words seemed false to her, like something she'd said to get him off her back. But the more she replayed herself saying them in her head, the truer they seemed. She'd been reluctant to find anyone else, friend or lover, because the only lucrative job on this rock was mining, so most men were miners. It went without saying that if you were prepared to marry someone on Craxan Prime, you had better be prepared to watch them die before your eyes.

Although she had previously viewed skylanders with distaste, she was beginning to understand more and more the advantages of being one. It meant never cleaning gas masks for husbands and brothers. It meant not having to worry about how many thick layers of plastic you put between the mine and his lunch. It meant growing old together. And for Anise, it was starting to become a path she might travel down to get the hell off this killer planet.

**xXx**

The hatch slid open and Lucas winced at the sound of grit in the workings. Anise used the remote to guide it in and power it down. Lucas reached up to help her down and Anise took his hand. She didn't need the help out of the car—she climbed in and out of it by herself all the time. It was semblance of gentlemanly behavior that was often abandoned on worlds out beyond the Tiir Limit. Anise reveled in it. He carried the timer box and followed her toward the corridor. "I'd like to check on Jake first, if you don't mind?"

Lucas smiled. "No problem. I'll wait here?"

"Don't get started without me, okay?"

Lucas chuckled. "I won't."

Anise did her best to walk calmly down the stone halls, but as soon as she was in the residential wing, she all but flew to Jake's room.

"Harvey?" There was no response. She frowned for a moment and then turned to her brother.

"I got some help to fix the timer. Lucas Parrinder."

She paused, watching his eyes for any sign of communication, but they remained steady.

"I know you don't like skylanders, Jake, but… he's a nice guy." She watched him worriedly, her eyebrows knitting into an anxious knot.

"When we're done installing the timer, I'll bring him back here and you can meet him. He even said he'll cook dinner. How's that sound?"

Jake blinked once, and Anise smiled softly at him. Though it was a one-sided conversation, there was someone there who was speaking to her. She leaned forward with a napkin and wiped a little drool off his lips and chin.

"You're getting a little messy, big guy. Don't want you looking like you kissed a slug, do we?" She leaned forward and kissed his clammy forehead. "I'll be back in a bit."

She walked lightly back to the junction of corridors. Lucas smiled as she came around the bend.

"Ready to grow?"  
She grinned. "You bet."

They started walking toward the agricultural wing and he stopped. "You do have tools to install this, right?"

Anise grabbed his shoulder, pulling him forward. "Yes, I do. How do you think I got the old one out of there?"

"Just checking. I wasn't sure if you were one of those gearhead types or not."  
"Gearhead," she mumbled, "Not likely. Or else I would have fixed the old one and saved some money."

Lucas nodded sagely. "I guess that's true. How much further is it?"

"Just around the next two corners, first left, then right."

As they rounded the first, Anise stopped sharply. "Do you hear that?"

Lucas stopped a few feet away. "Hear what?"

He listened, and heard it—the whirring of a geared door closing, and a dull thud. Then the air release as the door slid open. After a few moments, it repeated; that grinding noise, the thick stop and the whoosh of pressure being relieved. Anise looked down the hall past Lucas, and then began quietly inching down the hall. As she got to the second corner, she could see halfway down the next hall, and she saw the light diffuse from the greenhouse door onto the wall opposite it. The light grew and shrank with the machinations of the door; Anise could see the door's shadow shudder as it thudded and its smooth track back when it opened. She opened her mouth to call Lucas and tell him to come here, but he was already behind her, peering around the corner. She swallowed hard and then stepped out into the other hallway, facing the door of the greenhouse.

The foot and shin that were caught in the door leaked white fluid as the door pounded on it. Anise covered her mouth with one hand and pressed the emergency open on the door with the other.

"Harvey?"

She stepped into the room around the leg, avoiding it like one avoids a viper. The supersaline solution that had once coded messages about Jake's condition formed a milky pool on the floor. There was another leg, this one torn off at the hip joint, the blue fabric of the pants ragged and stained dark with the synthetic's blood.

She heard Lucas behind her cursing and trying to pick up a table that had been upended. Anise began looking for the rest of Harvey, her muscles flooded with adrenaline. Resolute, she followed the white fluid; although there were smears and signs of a struggle, the amount of supersaline pooled on the floor was increasing. Something shifted in the corner under an overturned hydroponics tray.

"Harvey?"

A cursory inspection revealed the synthetic's single remaining arm, twitching as it was drained of electrolytes. She rushed over to him, pushing the tray off of him. Her cry brought Lucas across the room.

One side of Harvey's neck was missing; the pale tubules stuck out at odd angles from the digital flesh. Anise felt tears burning her eyes as she watched him. His eyes were rolled back into his head, showing their stainless metal backsides. The torso was similarly wounded, with one cavernous hole in the chest; what remained of the shirt hung in ribbons on the android's frame.

Harvey twitched again. "Harvey? Can you hear me?" Anise couldn't keep the fear or sorrow at bay, and when she called him again, her voice broke. "Harvey!"

The android was still, but a small emergency subroutine had not yet lost power, and responded by playing a pre-recorded audio file installed by Weyland-Yutani's military sciences branch.

"BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS BUGS …"

The room hummed with the horrifying litany. Anise stood, at last understanding the synthetic's last desperate act: an attempt to warn her. Her breathing quickened as it suddenly dawned on her that the bugs might still be here. "Lucas?" she breathed. "We've got to get out of here."

She turned to look at him; his mouth was drawn into a grim line. "I'll help you get Jake."

Anise nodded and began picking her way through the destruction back toward the door. She picked up a heavy pipe from the dismantled rig along the way; she wasn't sure she could use it, but it felt good to have it in her hand. The recording stopped suddenly as the battery power failed. The silence was deafening, and Anise paused to listen and see if anything had been moving and using the noise as cover. There was nothing.

She began to move toward the door again, although the prospect of leaving the brightly lit room for the shadowy stone corridors was beginning to make her whimper with every breath. Lucas came up behind her. "I'll go first." Anise nodded, clutching the pipe she had picked up and noticing Lucas had gotten one as well. He slid close to the door and leaned out, looking both ways. He looked at her and then began sliding out of the door, around the corner to the left. Anise followed close behind, keeping her hand on his back. They moved across the corridor, keeping their backs to the wall. He leaned out and looked around the next corner and then leaned back in, whispering urgently.

"I can see the garage lights from here. You go power up the skiff and I'll get Jake, okay?"

She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and nodded. "Okay."

He smiled at her. "You're gonna be okay." She looked up to answer and saw the movement in the darkness behind him.

He turned—he had seen her face change—to see the drone hovering behind him. It swayed gently side-to-side, moving its tail in lazy serpentine loops. Lucas drew in a shuddery breath. "Anise, run."

Anise had been paralyzed with her initial fear, but his words broke through and she began to sob, inching between him and the wall to get past him. The drone wrinkled back its upper lip, exposing silvery teeth and dropping ropes of saliva on the floor. The long head swiveled away from him to Anise's retreating form, and it hissed softly. Lucas muttered a small prayer and then swung his pipe in an upward arc, connecting with the bug's shoulder.

It screeched in agony, whirling on the human who hit it. Anise stopped at the screech, looking back down the darkened corridor. "Lucas!"

"RUN, DAMMIT!" He couldn't check to see if she listened. The knife-edge of the drone's tail stabbed at him again and again, first into his thigh, and then his shoulder, leaving Lucas hoarse from screaming and dizzy with pain. For all its efforts, the drone failed to strike a killing blow. There was no time for him to think twice. He braced the pipe against his one good arm and brought it hard against the translucent side of the alien's head. Acid sprayed from the rent in the bug's exoskeleton; it bit into the limestone and fizzed violently. The caustic blood splashed onto Lucas, opening bubbling pockets in his face and arms. Lucas could only scream once before the acid burned through his sternum and into his lungs; in the short space between that moment and death, any other attempts produced only wet gurgles.

Anise watched in disbelief, her tear-streaked face frozen in a gruesome sob. Lucas' last scream tore her open inside; although she knew she had to run, she couldn't leave him while he was still alive. But the sizzle of acid on flesh and the rising hiss of the wounded alien made her fear greater than her loyalty, and in spite of wanting to have saved Lucas, she knew there was nothing she could do. She gathered up her legs and ran, dropping the pipe. The loud clang echoed down the hall like a death knell and it spurred the drone to action.

Anise ran as fast as she could; the oxygen was like fire in her lungs. Her nose was blocked from crying and she groaned on every breath. She was near the junction; the door to the residential wing was only feet away, but surely the drone was even closer than that. She jerked off into the garage corridor, hearing the bug behind her scrabble for traction on the stone floors. Her small lead time evaporated in the straight hall. The bug was gaining on her, and she knew it.

She ran into the garage and tried to run and put a car between the alien and herself, but hit something and fell to the ground. She must not have cleared the edge of the car, and now look what was going to happen. The drone had resumed its nonchalant sway; the wound on the side of its head had stopped gushing. Acid dripping off its face formed smoking pits in the floor. Anise tried to catch her breath, sucking in air and sobbing as she exhaled.

"So this is it. This is it." She leveled reddened eyes on the bug, feeling hatred and bitterness cut through her fear.

"I wish I had a gun, just so I could deny you the satisfaction of killing me." Movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention—two other drones had arrived. Anise coughed a laugh.

"Great. We'll have a party." The two new arrivals advanced on their quarry.

The air glimmered in front of her eyes and she wiped the back of her wrist across her face. A soft series of clicks sounded, and then the unsheathing of metal. The wounded drone shrieked and dove for Anise. Something caught it in midair and tossed it three meters across the garage. Anise looked up to find the air shimmering, the light itself unraveling to expose a giant humanoid, some two and a half meters tall, with thick locks of hair and a wickedly curved set of blades on its arm. There was a sudden movement, and a clanking of bone and metal. The humanoid took the bug's attack easily, catching it on the armblades and gutting it like a fish. The corpse bubbled on the floor, sinking into a pit of its own making. The new alien sank into a half-crouch and roared, a sound like nothing Anise had ever heard in her life. There were monsters fighting on Craxan Prime and Anise could not help but think that no matter who won, she lost.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_I apologize for the lame pop culture reference at the end of this chapter, but if I hadn't ended it there, it could have gone on for a whole 'nother chapter._

_Carbauxite is an entirely fictional mineral; bauxite, from which the name is derived, is mined for aluminum._

_The miner's disease, "Craxan flu" is based loosely on a collection of Lou Gehrig's disease, Locked-In Syndrome and various effects caused by pollutants. It is speculation for the sake of fiction, and it is highly unlikely that a compound in the presence of viruses would do much of anything. It was simpler than cancer and served my purposes._

_On Escthta not knowing human females: Dear Reader, I can understand your "WTF" at Escthta not knowing what a human female looks like. I rather meant to indicate that for a member of a species with a comparatively greater disparity between the sexes to observe humans, they would not observe much sexual dimorphism at all, certainly not to the degree in its own species. When you tell the difference between red and blue, it is not hard, but to tell the difference between magenta and cerise is very different because they are so much alike. This is why Escthta wonders how he will recognize them, since he believes they look so very much alike. _

_And thank you all again for reading and reviewing the story. I like to know that people take as much pleasure out of reading them as I take out of writing them._


	6. Death in the Long Grass

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Dear God, whoever let me play a Pokemon game needs to be shot. Not that I'm going to be writing fanfic for it, but the quest for a Milotic has kept me… occupied. . _

_See additional author's notes at the end._

**xXx**

Escthta faced the two remaining drones, ignoring the sting in his mouth from the acidic vapors that rose up off the one that had crumpled to the ground. Their long slick heads swiveled between him and the human uncertainly. Their indecision made him nervous; when they weren't acting, it was because they were observing for the queen. He had no idea how mature or widespread the hive was; their orbital surveillance had been faulty at best. Humans and their activities had a way of destroying the small telltale signs of a hive. They drove ruminants past the normal zone of inhibition, the ring of lifelessness around a hive, and built their settlements close to them without any sort of reconnaissance. Escthta half-felt that any species that would put their females and children in the direct path of a hive's collection routes deserved what they got.

The drones were still deliberating when Escthta joined them in battle. The queen would feel the cessation of their lives and she would know her hive was under attack. One drone she could lose, had lost with humans many times before. But three drones lost in the space of minutes could only mean they were being slaughtered by human troops or Hunted. The drones were confused by the sudden attack. Their normally well-coordinated attacks were clumsy; he dodged their clawed hands and knife-like tails easily. He didn't have a spear ready and his shoulder cannon was unattached on the floor; the hive had been close, but he hadn't expected them to actually be collecting the human he had found the night before. There was too much about this situation that was unexpected, from the drones, to the open doors, to the aliens' behavior. It didn't sit well with him, their lazy attack patterns and sleepy response times.

One drone hissed at him and made a close strike with its tail. Escthta moved aside easily, and caught the tail. He jerked it towards him quickly, and the drone stumbled toward him, off balance. He caught it and gripped the slick head. The jaws opened and the second mouth prepared to extend. A shudder crept through him at the sight of it. In his unBlooded days, he had seen many other yautja turned into bright green smears on rocks by the Alien's oral piston. They had taken the thing's reach for granted, but Escthta had learned his lesson from their deaths. He moved to the side for the first attempt. Anyone who listened could hear the release of pressure in preparation for the strike. Their acid blood was kept under high pressure for this purpose, the deadly tongue-strike that killed most enemies.

A high-pitched squeal pierced his ears; the other drone had been burned by a shoulder-cannon. Impatient, Escthta neatly broke the drone's neck and quickly slit the pressure tubes on either side of its head. A broken neck was not the surest indication of death in a drone, it was the loss of blood. Avoiding the initial caustic spray was crucial; that was what killed most. After the alien's body was depressurized, it could neither attack nor communicate with the queen. The scientists still had not worked out how the drones used the blood to receive messages from the queen, but they had assured the Council for years that they were "very close" to figuring out the _kainde amedha's_ communications system.

The acid spray was deflected by the slant of his blades. As the alien bled out, its jaws worked slowly. Immobilization was usually not the goal of a Hunter, but Escthta knew it nonetheless; it was a valuable skill that allowed a Hunter to avoid being impaled while he was preparing to field-dress a Hard Meat carcass. He stood and turned to find Cthinde and Bagthak standing at the threshold of the underground compound.

"Good thing one of us came prepared," Bagthak smirked. His shoulder cannon moved from active to passive position along his back. Cthinde was examining the garage bay doors.

"Those are usually closed," said Escthta. They had been wide open when they'd arrived, and Escthta had gone first without pausing to arm himself. It had saved the life of the young human, no doubt, but it had also put him in debt to Bagthak.

Cthinde looked around; Escthta could see from the faint red glint behind the mask's visor that he had the thermal implants running. Thermal vision was one of the ways that Hunters used their technology to better see their prey, but it was useless against kainde amedha, who emitted no body heat. For them, an electrical signal mask was better; it detected the small discharges of energy when drones communicated with the Queen, and made their masses of arms and legs visible against the less-active hive matrix.

Escthta himself didn't hold with thermal implants. Yautja already possessed brains and strength superior to that of any human he'd encountered, as his trophy wall proved. The thermal implants were for Hunters who were not gifted enough in using their natural sight to detect and hunt prey. He did have to concede its usefulness in a mission such as this one, however; his natural light-based vision had lost the human.

"Where is it?" Escthta was anxious to find it again; the attack would have left it confused and afraid, dangerous emotions for humans. They generally couldn't handle fear or confusion. Cthinde lifted his head from the workings of the garage door to sweep the garage area with his eyes.

"It's behind that transport." He nodded towards the skiff and then went back to looking at the workings of the garage door. Escthta covered the distance in a few strides, and then turned back to Cthinde. "What's so interesting about that door?"

"It's got acid burns and claw marks all over it." The terse answer left the threat unspoken; the Hard Meat had attempted to enter through the surface hatch, which meant the hive was close enough to send out surface scouts. The queen, having felt three of her children die on a scouting mission, would know that there were lifeforms here. It didn't matter to her if they were a threat or a source of warm bodies. The queen would send more drones, many more, and it was important that they be gone when the queen's reinforcements arrived.

**xXx**

Anise lay still, half underneath and half-behind the skiff. The large alien with the thick locks of hair had neatly dispatched one bug, and the other had been burned by some sort of energy blast. She could smell the acrid smoke off the charred corpse, though it lay several meters away from her. It stung her nose and mouth, and her eyes watered with the effort not to make a noise. There were three large humanoids now; one with the laser, the first one, and another one that was inspecting her garage door. They were making clicks and growling noises, strange barks and chitters. It froze her blood to realize that they were communicating; surely those noises weren't speech?

Her muscles had gone weak and wobbly with her stillness; what had once been the power and speed of survival was now just a soft mass of overexcited muscle, and she didn't feel that she could respond quickly enough to fight them, to get away, to do anything. She caught her breath as one large pair of feet was heading towards her. She felt the raw horror begin to rise up in her throat at them, the bizarre sandals they wore, their clawed toes, and the dewclaws on the sides of their feet. The feet stopped and half-turned, and she heard the clicking again, closer now. There was a reply, and then the humanoid approached the skiff. She closed her eyes briefly, fighting down a whimper, and when she opened them, the humanoid towered over her.

She screamed and pushed herself back and away from it. The thing was enormous, nearly nine feet. The head seemed overlarge for the body, with a high crown. It was included in the face-mask's protection. The mask itself was a severe stylization of a face, with dark lenses for eyes, and sharp cheekbones that came together at the bottom in a snout. The snout was an array of vertical fins, and she felt sick at what the counterpart under the mask could be. The body was enormous, with stocky limbs that were thick with muscles; this was a creature made for power, not speed, and when it reached for her, she screamed again.

"Get the fuck away from me!"

She scrambled backwards again, looking frantically for an escape, but the other two creatures had already begun moving into the corridor that led to the residential and mechanical wings. _Oh, God, Jake_. She lurched to her feet, running after them, hearing the creature behind her utter a startled noise. She entered the doorway, only to collide with a wall of muscle. The two other humanoids filled the space, and the one she'd run into gave her a sharp shove, sending her sprawling to the floor. There was nothing but panic left in her brain now; Jake was unprotected, Harvey was dead, and the bugs and the creatures that killed them were invading her home.

**xXx**

Cthinde watched the small human sobbing on the floor with a mixture of annoyance and pity. He turned to Escthta. "Are you sure this is the one you want?"

Bagthak grunted. "It doesn't have any kind of sense at all." He jerked his head back toward the deeper tunnels. "The Hard Meat are already back there. Going back there unarmed is like inviting death." Cthinde looked to Escthta, who had joined them in watching the small human.

"Maybe it has young." Escthta stepped closer to the human, but stepped back at her sharp cry. They weren't going to get anywhere with this. He looked at the two shorter yautja. "Humans live in family units and feel strong attachments to relatives. If there are relatives back there, it will try to get back to them."

Cthinde clicked softly, asking the question on all their minds out loud. "So we should… do what, exactly?"

Bagthak rumbled, "Any relatives must be dead or hosting by now." It was a matter-of-fact assessment from one who had seen impregnation many times.  
Escthta shrugged uneasily. The human's small ugly face was distorted and damp with secretions from its eyes and nose. "You and I know that, but maybe it doesn't."

Bagthak snorted. "And I suppose we can just talk to it and tell it everything?"

**xXx**

Anise was numb with fear. The three humanoids towered over her, impossibly tall. She herself was over five and a half feet, a tall woman, but these things were enormous. The tallest one, which had approached her first, was half a head taller than the other two. All three were dressed in scant clothing, but heavy armor; they had netting over their trunk and legs. The two shorter ones had metal loincloths and heavy shoulder and chest armor. The one on the end was the shortest, but carried a heavy pack on its back with what looked like a gun. This must be what killed the other bug, that flash of light that had ended in a screech.

Reason was breaking down her whimpering fear into curiosity, though she remained extremely wary. If they'd intended to kill her, they would have done so by now, and every moment she delayed, Jake remained in danger. Their conversation, in the small clicks and chatters that she was slowly getting used to, stopped. Three large heads turned and looked at her.

"What do you want from me?" The question was small and shaky, and would have been more effectively asked if she was not still on the floor.

The tallest hunkered down and peered closely at her. He offered his hand, palm up. Anise uncertainly extended her own hand in a mimic of his gesture, but withdrew it at his excited cry. He conversed for a moment with the other two and then his hand was offered again. She looked at the outstretched hand, enormous and clawed. After a few moments hesitation, she took it gingerly, surprised at the warmth of it. The humanoid stood, drawing her up roughly and setting her on her feet.

**xXx**

"Okay, so we can communicate. Tell it that there's going to be a lot of death here if we don't get moving." Bagthak was anxiously eyeing the darkened corridor, searching its shadows for Hard Meat. The human's presence was unnatural, and his normal eloquence evaporated under pressure. Escthta turned to the small human. There was no way to tell it that he was going to take it far away from here. He pointed at the _kainde amedha_ that lay on the floor and held up three fingers. The human was still. He unfolded his fingers many times and pointed at the corpses again. The human looked at the black bodies and then back at him. It said something in its strange language, and then pointed at the corpses again. _There will be more of those things?_ He understood its intent, and nodded slowly. The human then pointed at the corridors and babbled anxiously, trying to push between the Hunters barring its way. Escthta frowned and at last realized that his earlier guess was correct. "There are relatives back there."

Bagthak cursed under his breath. "Fuck that." He began walking toward the hatch.

Cthinde watched the human quietly and then shrugged. "This is your human. You help it."

Escthta hid his disappointment, although he had known this would be their response. He walked back and collected his shoulder cannon, securing it on his shoulder. He would have to be careful about his firing; in the enclosed spaces, any wrong shots could cause a cave-in or make acid blood splash the wrong way. He tested the tracking, moving his head and keeping track of the laser-guided sight in his vision.

The human's eyes were lit up by his laser sighting as he moved the cannon around, and it squinted and looked away. The cannon moved into inactivity along his back, and he walked forward, standing in front of her. So this was what Thtarok needed? A childbearer? He ran his eyes over her, unimpressed. She had no claws, no muscle structure, and couldn't possibly be misconstrued as menacing. Compared to his females— to Da-kvar'di— she was a small, soft package of flesh and bone, too curvy to be appealing, too small to be threatening. He remained still for several moments; if this was how the human warriors he fought were created, how did they grow to be such fighters? With such soft and gentle looking females, how did they develop any sort of taste for combat?

He moved toward the dimly lit corridor that led back into its den; regardless of his personal feelings on this human, it needed to come with him. If that required his company into the depths of the compound to reassure her that all her kin were dead, so be it. She called out after him and caught up, moving alongside him. He preprogrammed the codes for calling down a retrieval pod from the ship to one button on his cuff computer; there was no telling what kind of trouble they would be in when they left.

**xXx**

Anise stopped at the junction and looked toward the hydroponics room. She could barely make out a small form in the darkness down the corridor, which she knew could only be Lucas. Or what was left of him. She felt her gorge rising at the thought of his death, his pain. She put a hand against the wall, trying to draw on the coolness of the stone to settle her stomach. It was slick with water, and she wiped the moisture off, spreading it over her forehead. There was no time. She turned herself to the residential wing and began moving through the corridors. The lights still worked, painting the walls their usual sallow brown, but the illumination gave her no comfort.

Jake's room was still intact, and as she rushed in, she forgot about her silent shadow, and hugged her brother tight. She looked at him, trying to make sure he was okay. His breathing was a little quick; if he was excited too long, he would have to be intubated to make sure the breathing passageway remained open.

"Thank God, Jake. Oh, thank God." She brushed his damp hair away from his temples, watching him. The beeping of the heart monitor increased; the large humanoid had entered the room. Jake's eyes blinked rapidly, but Anise smiled uneasily at the creature.

"It's… it's not okay, exactly. I don't know what he is. But I think he's here to help."

She turned back. "There are bugs here, Jake. We've got to get you out of here."

Jake blinked twice.

"Don't be difficult, Jake. You can't say no." Anise leaned behind the chair to begin making him ready to move, and her hand brushed something coiled and bent. She pushed Jake forward to see it with more light, and a shrill gasp escaped her lips. It looked like an experiment gone wrong, a dead pair of hands that escaped from their sallow-fleshed owner. The digits were curved inward over a small orifice and a long segmented tail lay motionless around it.

The humanoid roared and shoved her out of the way, grabbing for the thing. The tail uncoiled, and the digits creaked in a menace of movement. It flung the hideous thing away, out of the room, and shot it with the shoulder cannon in midair. It hit the ground in a spray of acid and fire. Anise cowered on the floor, whimpering at the alien thing, at its proximity to her brother, at the cannon blast. She pulled herself up using Jake's chair, and looked closely at him, her eyes blurred with tears. His breathing was shallower than ever, and she suppressed her own panic long enough to kiss his forehead.

"Jake, we're going to get you out of here." A triangle of lasers on Jake's chest made her words catch in her throat.

She turned her head slowly and her face twisted in silent agony as she saw the cannon leveled on her. The humanoid was quiet, though its hands clenched and unclenched. The laser sights were steady, bright red on Jake's white hospital gown, and Anise put herself in the path.

"Please, don't kill him!"

It was a plea the alien would not understand, but it was all she could do. Small, unarmed and many times weaker than the alien, there was nothing more she could do but beg for Jake's life to be spared.

The alien clicked softly at her, and the noise reminded her of a cat's purr, out of place in its current employment. It thumbed back at the carcass that was dissolving the hall outside the room and then nodded to Jake. Anise, with her head against Jake's chest, heard his heartbeat; it was rapid and light, like a rabbit's. There was another noise, a shifting and gurgling which Anise couldn't place. She pulled back and looked to Jake's face, a new realization of horror creeping into her brain. "Jake?"

Jake blinked once.

**xXx**

The female was similar to the debilitated male in the chair; the scanners in his mask approximated them as first kin. A quick change of vision modes showed that the male's bones were large and well-formed. He was an invalid, but was not born that way. With the two side-by-side, he could see the differences in the pelvis for child-bearing. Another change to electric scanning confirmed what the dying facehugger had already told him; the male was hosting, and had been for at least a few hours. The Hard Meat fetus had already grown to close to full size in the abdominal cavity. Eruption was imminent. Escthta stepped forward and tugged on the female, who cried out and remained laid across the chair. Her eyes were seeping again and she blubbered her nonsense language. He couldn't get a clear shot to end the human's life honorably.

There was pain inside the man in the chair, but Escthta did not sense physical pain. In fact, the human male felt almost relieved. Escthta looked at him, meeting his eyes through the lenses of his mask, and feeling the desperation behind them. There was an uneasy moment, and Escthta felt revulsion, fear, anger, sorrow in waves, but they were temporary. Escthta stood immobile, awash in the human male's emotions. He could not Speak yet, but surely he could listen. He stilled himself, letting the forces of the man's brain tug at his consciousness. Emotions are not bound by language or race, and innermost thoughts are not played out in words, but in feelings and images. This man, on the threshold of death, was not coy or ashamed of his last thoughts.

_There is not much time. I can feel it here in my chest. I don't know what you are, but you are here, and you are the only one left. In the name of anything you hold dear, take care of her._

Escthta stepped forward and put his hand on the human's shoulder. The female looked up, face enflamed and red. Escthta regarded her silently. To kill him without her permission was insulting, but to allow him to suffer eruption was unethical. He debated for a moment, but the writhing of the alien fetus directly underneath her head forced him to action. He encircled the female's waist with one arm, hauling her up and moving her out of the way. He chucked her out of the room and walked quietly back to the male. With a silent prayer to Paya, he clicked softly in reassurance, and felt the faint life sigh in gratitude. With one hand, he pressed the male's eyes closed, and with the other hand, he exposed the human's pale chest, where he could see the alien fetus beginning to bulge out.

A quick cannon burst left a gaping cavity in the man's chest. The smell of gore and burning flesh filled the room, but Escthta was reassured the man's death was quick; he had felt the consciousness wink out with the flash of his shoulder cannon. He reached into the still-warm flesh and withdrew the heavily compromised alien fetus, which was working its jaws weakly. He tossed it to the floor and ground it underfoot, feeling the bones crack under his weight. Then he heard the heart-rending scream of the female, saw her sink on the floor halfway into the room. She screamed again as he moved near her, her sobs cutting off her breathing. Escthta felt a pang of guilt at his actions, but there was nothing more he could do. The male had been given the best death possible, under the circumstances. Escthta grabbed the screaming female by the arm and half-pulled, half-dragged her out of the room and down the hall.

**xXx**

There were no words. When the humanoid let her go, she collapsed onto the floor against the wall, curling her legs up to her chest. She screamed until spittle ran down her chin, blood pounded red and painful in her temples, and the world was a grey blur of rock. Until her air was gone, she wailed, and then her lungs, in spite of her fervent wish that they not do so, would take in more air, and she would still be alive where Jake was not, and the sounds she made were those of her soul trying to turn itself inside out.

In the silences between her cries, she could hear the grunts of her brother's killer. He was fighting. . Her voice was exhausted; the raw pain of her throat quieted her some, and her eyes were unseeing, staring dully at the stone floor. A scrape of claws against metal armor and a protracted howl of effort forced her to lift her head from the floor. The big alien was backed up against the wall, fending off the smaller black alien, avoiding the snaps of teeth and the honed claws. Watching the alien and the bug, she was unsettled by the seething hiss of the bug and the gnashing of its teeth. Lucas had seen those things last as his body's hydrogen bonds were undone, as the acid blood took its toll on his flesh. She could see now that the humanoid was at an unfortunate angle; the bug had put him on his knees in defense, and the chance he would survive became increasingly smaller.

Though the larger alien had done that to her brother in his room—she couldn't bring herself to think the word 'killed'—she too had felt the fear of that long head swiveling towards her. Those silvery teeth, and the second mouth between them sent shivers down her spine. And on some level, although she wasn't aware of the biological realities, she knew that the thing her brother's killer had crushed underfoot and the thing he was fighting were undoubtedly related. Anger strangled her apathy; these were the things that had crept silently into her home, that had sentenced Jake to death. She pushed herself up off the ground, grabbing a piece of lumber from along the wall. She swung the plank at the alien, relishing its squeal as she hit it in the midsection and knocked it off its feet. Her ersatz protector got to his feet as the bug did, but this time, his cannon was primed; it fired a blue-white bolt that impacted the bug in the chest and splattered the walls behind it with acid. The drone sank down on the floor, smoke curling off its body, and Anise coughed at the acidic vapors thick in the air. The humanoid picked her up around her waist and moved quickly through the smoke, setting her down once they were clear.

Anise kept her feet uneasily and watched the massive back and shoulders of the humanoid continue down the hall and turn left at the junction. She followed after him quickly, still carrying her plank and liking the splintery feel of it in her hand as they got closer to the exit. She desperately wanted to haul off and drive the wood into his back, between his ribs and feel his flesh give, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Her companion was armed, and though she was still too close to Jake's death to properly assess her situation, she knew that violence wasn't a way to solve anything, especially anything dealing with an alien that had a cannon which fried bugs. Her fingers and muscled itched to do something, though, anything. Her chest physically ached with her loss, and her brow was permanently creased as she concentrated on not falling to pieces.

What would happen when they reached the surface? Why was he defending her from bugs? Why did he kill her brother? Would he leave her here to the bugs? Her logic rebelled against that; if he was going to do that, why go to the trouble of defending her in the first place? She was gnawed at by the uncertainty and didn't even think to look where she was walking. Suddenly, the cool breeze of the open hatch hit her face, and it smelled like rain.

Outside, a small craft had set down on the near side of the clearing, but it was so close to the edge of the prairie; there was an occasional thunk as a razorgrass hull was blown into it. The rain was gentle, and the moisture buds of the grasses were only just beginning to peek out of their houses. A silvery cable attached to the roof of the craft lay slack, and the other end went up and up, forever into the blameless grey clouds. It was a transport like she'd never seen before; was it some sort of giant fishing rod, and they'd be 'reeled in' to the mothership? She realized that she'd attached herself to the humanoid in her thinking; they would, she'd thought.

It was absurd, farcical and utterly ludicrous to think of going with the alien. And yet, as he opened the hatch on the ovoid craft, she looked back into her home, knowing the blood and the destruction there, knowing that all there was inside it was misery and loneliness. She thought of her brother, waistless and blank-eyed—oh how much those eyes had told her since he'd stopped speaking!—and she felt her throat close. There was nothing here for her.

She turned back and looked at the alien, which was standing near the ovoid and looking fidgety. What would await her with him? What evil lurked behind his altruistic exterior? Would she be enslaved? Tortured? Probed? A number of scenes choreographed themselves in her head, but they all compared themselves to the grisly scene in Jake's room and the parade of fake mourners and the Weyland-Yutani military types who would want to know what had happened. If there was nothing here for her but mourning and ostracism, then there was nothing here. She amended an ancient axiom in her head; "Better the devil you don't know than the one you do; at least the one you don't know will screw you over a different way." The mud under her feet was soft as she walked to his side. He chattered softly at her and climbed in first. There was space for one passenger, a tall, quilted section of silver fabric. He hooked himself into it, fastening straps, and it was then that she noticed the second harness attached to his. She climbed up uncertainly, and he began fastening the harness around her, though its size was such that it was barely any use.

The sound of clattering razorgrass made him jerk his head up. He hissed softly and slammed his large fist against a button on the wall, flicking several switches next to it. The hatch lifted up, closing the ovoid off. Anise was horrified at the sight of the bugs pouring into the clearing from the grass-lined edge. A steady sound of pressurization, and the black drones in the clearing were running toward them. The hatch sealed and Anise felt the craft move and jerk; the aliens had rammed it. A screech of claws sounded all around them, and the humanoid keyed in something on a keypad made with strange numbers. The craft lurched and the claw noise faded. Anise felt her blood move into her legs, and she grew dizzy, her head nodding about. She sagged in the harness, barely conscious of the ink-dappled arms that wrapped around her and held her head steady, to keep the gravitational forces from breaking her neck.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _The device they are traveling in is a bastardization of a skyhook. It does work similar to a float on a fishing reel. If you must know the mechanics of it, I'll be happy to outline it in an email. Otherwise, this is one of those things that you'll have to take my word for. _

_This chapter was difficult to write for several reasons; one was my personal experience with death in my family. The other was the obvious ramifications of losing your entire family in one day. I did my best to make her ordeal just that, an ordeal, without trivializing her grief, and by extension, my own._

_The heartiest of thanks to my beta for this chapter, Drakonlily. Go read her Final Fantasy VII fics if you haven't already. She's a doll. _


	7. The Whiteness of Bones

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Sorry for the long time between updates; I had several real-life issues to deal with, including becoming engaged!_

**xXx**

The air was a rarified concoction with high humidity; for several minutes after Anise became aware, she lacked the strength to move. There was a burning heat against her, and as she lifted her head, which seemed mounted on springs, she found herself enshrined in the arms of her protector. His head was turned to a small display screen at his cheek; he bent his head and uttered an inquisitive trill as she moved. Blankly, she stared at him, wondering anew what she had gotten herself into. Unable to parse any emotions, she simply rested her head against him again. She had almost regained unconsciousness when the whole craft jerked. She looked up at the display screen, and from what she could make out, the pod was docking with a much larger ship; their craft was a tiny blip moving toward a larger red mass, and a docking bay, marked in black, was being opened for their arrival.

His hands moved from their resting places at her sides and began keying in sequences on the pads. Anise found herself blinking at the long black nails that tipped his fingers. As she continued to watch, she corrected herself; 'nails' was a human word accorded to pampered rich women. These were claws, and they reminded her again of the wholly different world into which she was entering. She felt her stomach tighten into knots at the strangeness of it all, and her neck weakened again. She rocked forward against him, jostling as the craft was bolted into place by the docking locks. He reached down and undid the flight harness, the clasps snapping loudly in the enclosed area. He chattered at her softly, and she half-smiled in her exhaustion; his tone and manner reminded her of when she had found small animals and taken them, nursing them back to health. The possibility entered her mind—could his caretaking be some sort of apology for Jake's death? Did his culture appropriate the females of a defeated warrior to the victor? Her stomach became even more unsettled at the thought.

The rush of air into the chamber interrupted her thoughts. The lid of the ovoid craft lifted, and her rescuer nudged her forward. She stumbled over the lip of the craft, and leaned against the exterior. Her hand passed over ridges in the otherwise smooth metal, and she realized with horror that these were the evidence of the bugs' final attack, their claws carving rows into the outer shell of the egg. Her companion stepped out of the ovoid and helped her up; she accepted the assistance unconsciously, feeling light-headed and gasping for air.

Another doorway hissed open in front of them, and Anise found herself face to face with the other two humanoids, and more standing behind them. All wore masks with varying degrees of ornamentation. Despair boiled up in her as she saw nothing familiar in their masks, and more gruesome bits of bone hanging off their persons. One stepped forward, and she was startled to recognize the mask as belonging to one of the original three. She had a niggling feeling that this was their leader. Perhaps she should make some gesture of respect? The most formal and placating gesture that came to mind was a bow, but she wasn't sure she could manage it in her wobbly state.

Instead, she got down on her knees, remembering some ancient documentary on tribal customs. She reached forward and took his left hand in both of hers. She brought it towards her, pressing the top of it to her forehead. It was the best expression of fealty she could offer, though the feeling of his rough skin and the heat behind it unsettled her, and she dropped his hand quicker than she would have liked. The alien was silent, and finally, he turned and walked away. The rest of them dispersed quickly, leaving her with her original guardian.

**xXx**

Escthta had been surprised by the female's gesture of obeisance; it fell just short of indenture. He stood next to her, where she was still, staring after Cthinde. Escthta could still feel Cthinde's confusion even as he moved beyond the scope of Escthta's mind. The female slowly got to her feet, and her quick breathing wheezed in her lungs.

The atmospheric composition of the _Zanna_ was adjusted to favor Hunters, though the composition should work for humans. He frowned, puzzled, and leaned down to help the human up. He was still at a loss as to whether she should be treated as emissary or as animal, and he was no closer to figuring it out as she got to her feet and followed him through the corridors.

**xXx**

Anise clung to him like a shadow, her footsteps sounding rapid and small behind the long, heavy strides of her companion. She hadn't given him a name in her mind; it gave him a realness that she wasn't sure she wanted to acknowledge yet. Instead, she stared intently at his back and watched the swaying of his dreadlocks until they stopped before a large door. The frame was ornately engraved with sharp shapes and spidery scripts, lit from behind with a red-orange glow.

The door hissed open, and Anise peeked out from behind her escort.

The room was large with numerous viewscreens and a window onto space that took up an entire wall. Here too were the carvings and decorations, their severity repeated on banks of computer screens and edges of chairs. Anise was beginning to recognize some of the stiff glyphs that appeared and reappeared on screens. They might be letters or numbers, but try as she might, Anise couldn't divine their meaning. Her protector motioned to her to stay in one place, and he stepped forward to join the other two in conversation. Anise was left to her own devices, and at length, she studied her roommates.

The first she noticed was the one she had been moving with, the one who had saved her from the bugs, but killed her brother. She couldn't quite bring herself to call him Killer— although Jake had died by his hand, all of his efforts had been focused on her preservation. He wore considerably less armor; the exposed skin was a dull yellow color with black spots on it. His loincloth was what looked like leather, and he had metal plating on the outsides of his thighs, overlying a half-skirt of worn, grey material. His chest was covered with a triangular leather plate and five straps crossed it horizontally, the shortest at the bottom and the longest at the top, ending in rings that each had small skulls threaded on to them. She ended her perusal at his hands, which were spread in a plaintive gesture. Each claw-tipped finger was splayed wide, and she decided that she would call him Talon. Talon's mask was smooth, but near the bottom of the mask, the mouth panel erupted into vertical fins ornamented with beads of metal at their tips. Anise felt unsettled by the strangeness of the mouth on the mask; in her experience, most human masks might have looked strange, but they were at least representations of what lay behind them.

Talon was several inches taller than the next shortest one, whom she recognized as the one armed with the cannon. In his hands now, he held something that looked remarkably like a sextant. _He must be the ship's navigator_, she realized suddenly. His mask was heavily ornamented around the visor's lens, and he also wore a half-skirt around his hips, held in with a leathery belt. He clanked as he moved, and Anise realized that he had a set of metal pieces bound around one arm with a thickness of cloth, the same blood-stained red as his skirt. Their shapes seemed random to her, but she supposed they were keys. Navigator and ship's master made him an important person, and his armor, lightly decorated straps of metal over his shoulders, seemed to reflect it. She was most entranced by his mask and its decoration; she named the Navigator Visor, since his eyes were surely his most important tool aside from the sextant.

She turned her attention last to the leader, the one she had paid thanks to, who was the shortest of these three. He wore the most armor, and each piece had decorative flourishes, akin to the room carvings, that were missing from her companion. He sported a metal codpiece with layered plates, and a thick belt of animal hide decorated with small skulls across his chest. He wore metal and hide guards for his shins, and the leathery ties were stained dark with blood and sweat. He folded his arms as her protector spoke in their strange language of grunts, chatters and growls.

His mask was the simplest; it had no strange rivets or fins, but bore small metal fangs at each corner of the plane that covered the mouth. For these she named him Fang.

She had named her rescuers and with a small sense of accomplishment, she slid down to the floor, politely covering her mouth as she yawned. The rooms were warm, warmer than she liked it, and the day was catching up to her. She ached in places she didn't know she had, and her back and legs creaked their protests as she forced them into a sitting position.

**xXx**

"She's an animal, a specimen. Put her in the hold." Cthinde's voice held a sour note that Escthta winced inwardly at.

"I can't do that. She's got thoughts and feelings."

"She's not yautja and does not need to be around us. You can put her in a holding cell for Bad Bloods, if you'd like."

Escthta recoiled inwardly; those cells were barely habitable at all—sewage pooled in the lower areas on the floor and many times the floor still harbored the last meal of the Bad Blood before being turned over to the council. "I wouldn't do that to a rhynth I liked."

Cthinde folded his arms and glared hard at Escthta. "It seems we're at an impasse, then."

Escthta curled his fingers to make a fist at his side, and then relaxed it.

"We have to deliver her in good health, physical and mental. We can't treat her like an animal."

Cthinde huffed loudly, and then ground out, "What happened to humans being a gift from Paya, animals good only for Hunting? Have you changed your mind on that? Will you stop Hunting because they have thoughts and feelings?" The last words held a derisive quality and Escthta growled softly at the mocking tone.

"What are you trying to imply, Cthinde?" Escthta struggled to keep his voice toneless and leave his anger out of this argument, regardless of the sting his honor felt. "I was given a mission to return the human in the best condition possible. Don't let official business goad you into saying things you don't mean." Escthta tilted his head in an easygoing manner; since his face could not be seen, his tusks were still flared slightly in annoyance.

Bagthak spoke up quietly. "Perhaps you could keep it in your quarters?" Cthinde turned to Bagthak, who shrugged. "She need not trouble anyone else, and Escthta could closely monitor her environment."

Cthinde jumped on the opportunity for an honorable reconciliation with a gruff "I'll allow it."

Escthta was silent for a moment and then inclined his head slightly. "As you wish."

**xXx**

Talon was angry about something; the exchange between Talon and Fang had gotten heated, and Visor had intervened. Anise remained unsettled. She could sense the precariousness of her position here, and she shrunk back, trying to sink into the metal floor as they argued. Finally, Talon turned on his heel and Anise struggled to her feet as he breezed past her. She followed him through twisting corridors, watching his massive shoulders and arms move as they walked. The halls were deserted. None of the aliens she had seen before could be found, and she wondered briefly where they had all gone. Talon stopped in front of a door and keyed in a sequence of numbers. The door slid open with a hiss and then fell silent. Anise followed her benefactor, although what she found was not what she expected.

The triangular room was Spartan at best, furnished with only the most needed furniture. It reminded Anise of a monk's cell. The walls were blank, except for one wall, which was ornately engraved. Tableaus of the aliens in triumphant poses populated the lower half, and the upper half was dominated by a trio of shadowy figures whose features were not clearly defined. Spread before the wall was a small carpet, and Anise realized suddenly that it was a place for prayer and reflection.

Her heart chastened for its thoughts of gore and bones, she turned to the other side of the room, which bore a small door and an enclosed berth for sleeping, as well as a small desk near the berth. The desk held a kind of pyramid with upraised clamps, as well as several sheets of clear plastic material. Talon was removing his armor, plate by plate. The shoulder cannon and back armor slid off with the activation of a hidden catch. Anise felt her face redden slightly, although she didn't suppose that his culture had the same taboos about nakedness. More to the point, as the armor vanished, so did his stooped look, as well as his hunched back. With the armor gone, Talon stood tall, and Anise could see that his body was not the thick barrel she had imagined. It was sinewy and lean, with cream-colored skin that was sprinkled with spots of black.

He released his cuffs from around his wrist and forearms, setting them on the desk; the other armor he hung on the wall. The netting he wore was disposed of easily; without the armor to hold the sides in place, it fell apart as he removed the utility belt around his hips. He sat inside the berth, reaching down and shucking off the metal shin guards and leaving them to rest on the floor. Nearly naked, he tucked his feet into the berth and with a soft purr, was silent.

Anise opened her mouth to ask a question, although she knew he could not understand. Rather than profane his altar, and with no other choices, she crawled to the corner between the desk and the wall with the door on it, and curled up there. There were no creature comforts here, and she was sleeping in the lair of her brother's killer, but she was alive, and she was determined to make the best of her impulsive decision to join the aliens.

**xXx**

Escthta heard the human crawl to a corner. He sat back up and looked at her. How could something so puny cause so much trouble? He stood, and the human lifted her head. She had been accepting up until now, but Escthta held his suspicions that it was because they were both bipedal, both with opposable thumbs. She saw too many similarities to be afraid, and not enough differences to know better.

He reached up and detached the air hoses from his mask. The hollow rush of air fizzled out quickly; he had removed the rebreather, the device which changed air to the Hunters' ideal atmosphere, with his armor. On the ship, there was no need for masks, but most Hunters did not remove them until they were finished with planetside for the day. With no small amount of ceremony, he wrapped his hands around his mask and lifted it free, watching the human through the spaces between his fingers.

**xXx**

Anise could barely process what she was seeing. The large head and face of Talon was ugly beyond description. His eyes were sunken into black pits in his face, his facial structure highlighted by the plugs of hair that grew along the bone ridges. Instead of a nose and mouth, a cavity in the head was protected by folds of skin and protruding tusks that interlocked to protect the mouth. It was a small, toothy crevice barely visible behind the tusks. She blinked and stared at him, although no matter how often her eyes observed his features, they could not become familiar or normal. Her eyes burned, her vision clouded, and finally the tears forced her to blink, and she looked away from his face. The sobs came quickly, before she could even suppress them, and she covered her face in her hands, unwilling and unable to see him.

What had she been thinking? To think that she could live among them and interact with them—she was a fool, and that was the pure and simple truth. She rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her bodysuit, though the water-resistant coating did little more than smear it around. She sniffed once, twice, and then looked back up at Talon. Her face burned, but she watched him, still motionless after placing his mask on the desk's pyramid. Her breathing became steady, slow, and she nodded her head back against the wall, keeping her eyes on him. "Why?" The word was simple, and it held in it all her questions for him, which were beyond number. Talon offered no answer, no comfort, and his unnatural face told nothing of his thoughts.

**xXx**

Escthta held eye contact with the human for long moments. Time stretched unmeasured between them, and at last, her intense gaze was broken by a yawn. She glanced at him, and then curled up on the floor. He watched her for a few more minutes and then leaned back into his berth, grabbing the small pad that pillowed his head and tossing it to her on the floor. She looked at it as if it were poisonous, and then turned her back to him, resting her head on her arm.

He couldn't help but frown at her as he laid down in his berth and keyed the lights to dim. Humans were difficult to figure out anyway, and this one seemed more confused than most. But then again, the whole situation was strange beyond the pale; yautja took no prisoners, hadn't taken prisoners in ages. Slavery of other races had been outlawed over a thousand years ago, in the interests of keeping the Hunt pure. The fact that she was present at all in one piece was remarkable in itself.

He turned his head to look at her in the meager light. Even without the aid of thermal implants, he could see the delicacy of her bones, and he entertained for a moment the thought of them naked of flesh, stark on his trophy wall. To his surprise, the thought wasn't rewarding and had its own tinge of unpleasantness. He wondered what sorts of experiments Thtarok had planned for her. He had his own suspicions that the man had a sadistic streak that went far beyond skinning and dressing one's kill. Escthta always allowed the humans to die before skinning them, but he knew that others did not. Cthinde wouldn't allow such barbaric behavior in his Clan, regardless of who was doing it, but it was not considered to be out of line with other yautja, and some Clans even encouraged it. Escthta looked at his chestplate, the leather triangle with its strips of hide. The human it had come from had been his first, who was in a place of honor on his wall. As such, he rarely skinned humans any more; he had no need of their hairless pelts, and it robbed the corpse of its dignity. Sleep crept upon him, and his rest was uneasy, his dreams featureless.

**xXx**

Anise's eyes had been open for an hour, but she had shifted only slightly. Sleep had been caught in snatches on the hard floor. At one point, she had used the makeshift pillow he'd thrown her, only to reject it as too hard. It was past this pillow she looked, to the shin guards that lay on the floor. The handle of what could only be a knife glittered in a leather sheath on the side. For an hour, she had lain there and fantasized about it, whether its point was intended for herself, or her captor. She played out numerous scenes, which always ended in death, and she milked them for her grim satisfaction.

Her side had fallen asleep sometime during the night, and she winced at the pins and needles that burned like fire down her legs. Slowly, doing her best to remain silent, she inched over to the shin guard, reaching her fingers out for the handle of the knife. It came easily, though the blade rang as she pulled it free. The tang was serrated, and this close, she could see that the sheath was not leather, only covered in it. It was heavy in her hands, and she had no doubt that it was sharp enough to cut through bones. She stood creakily, gripping and re-gripping the knife in her hand.

She stepped forward to take her revenge, her face already gathered in the gruesome folds of agony. Her target shifted as he slept, but Anise had already come this far, already made her choice, as evidenced by the blade in her hand. She leaned forward, ducking into the berth, and scanned the length of his body for a place to strike. She glanced at his face again to make sure he was still asleep, but the amber-green eyes were open, and they stared at her intently. She breathed in her scream of resentment, clenching her teeth until she could hear the enamel squeak.

His eyes didn't move from her and he blinked lazily, still coming out of slumber. His left hand reached for the knife, but didn't take it from her. He moved her bladed fist to his throat, positioning the point on his jugular. She stared at him for a moment more, her breathing telling of the shuddering efforts to remain calm. His eyes weren't frightened, they were intelligent and sharp. They offered no judgment, no anger, and as his hand drifted away from his throat, hers could not keep the point pressed home. She released the knife on his chest, defeated. She stood back, out of the berth, and Talon climbed out, walking past her without a second glance. Anise looked sideways as he walked, and in his skin, she could see the puckers and paleness of scars across his abdomen.

He paused in front of the other wall, setting up trays and cylinders around his scrap of carpet. At length, he stood and began tracing his fingers over the three shadowy figures. His clawed fingers found a carving that housed a catch and tripped it with one claw. The halves of the wall separated, pulling into the wall, and Anise watched with renewed horror the wall of skulls that was revealed. There were shapes there she didn't recognize, large skulls with enormous fangs and misshapen skulls thickened with bone. There were shapes that were familiar, the long heads of the black bugs mounted on the wall, strangely ivory underneath their acid-proof shells. To her chagrin, there were also human skulls, gleaming on their mounts.

Talon seated himself on the rug in front of the trays, now set up with cylinders. Anise inched closer, unable to quash her morbid curiosity. Talon used a small rod to tap two of the cylinders. With barely any effort, the cylinders filled the room with a rich, resonant tone. Talon's head rocked forward, and Anise thought she could perceive a low rumble from him, in the same tone as the largest cylinder. It was a kind of prayer or meditation, and the length of the tone stretched for several moments, during which neither Talon nor Anise moved.

When at last the tone was spent, Talon picked himself up and put his cylinders and trays away, and concealed the wall behind the engraving again. Anise watched him, inwardly impressed with his meticulousness. He stepped across the room to the door on the same wall as the berth, and opened it. He stopped as he was about to enter, and then turned and walked to Anise, stopping just in front of her.

Anise looked up at him, her nerves shot. "I can't be afraid of you anymore." She remembered an old film she had seen as a child where a wild man introduced himself by touching his chest and saying his name. She half-smiled at the memory; who would have thought that 'wild men' still existed? As she looked him over again, she corrected herself; who would have guessed that she would be the one to encounter intelligent life? There was nothing lost in trying. She looked at him when he moved suddenly, as if he'd remembered something.

Talon tilted his head to the side and then touched his chest, half-growling at her. He repeated the gesture again, and the growl was more pronounced. Anise blinked in realization. "You're trying to name yourself, aren't you?" He hesitated for a moment and then tilted his head. She reached up slowly, trying not to alarm him, and touched his chest. His skin burned underneath her fingers, and she said the name she had chosen for him. "Talon." She touched her own chest, feeling the warmth from his body that lingered in her fingers. "Anise."

**xXx**

Escthta listened to the human uneasily. The thought to touch his chest and say his name had come unbidden. The communication was crude at best, but it was a beginning. What surprised him more was that she understood his intent and did the same. The name was alien to him; he tried it and mangled it horribly, finally grunting in frustration. He breathed in slowly; he would learn to speak her name, but it was not an effort he expected every yautja to make.

It occurred to him he could just call her "human", for she was the only one of her kind that had ever seen the inside of their ship, and when he spoke it, it would be obvious to whom he referred. But the practice didn't sit well with him. He had heard the name she chose for him in her language, and although it was strange, it was not altogether unpleasant. He cast his eyes over her person, looking for something that would identify her. He stroked his tusk thoughtfully, turning and pacing the room. His eyes fell upon the knife, still lying on the rumpled mattress in the berth. He blinked, having finally come upon an acceptable name for her. He turned back to her, covering the distance between them, and reached out to tap her breastbone.

"I name you H'chak-di, she of mercy." He repeated the name for her, and was mildly amused by her attempts to say it. She actually did a passable job without having the physical equipment for the stops. She thumped his chest, saying again her name for him, and he returned with her name. They were communicating. It was small, but it was a start.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _I'm sure the Tarzan and Jane reference escaped no one, but there are few, if any, references to the establishment of communication between two intelligent species. It was either this or go the way of Koko the gorilla. It would have been interesting to try, but it's not really a task I'm up to at this point._

_As always, thanks to those who email me with comments; I appreciate them more than you know._


	8. The Company of Strangers

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _See Author's Notes at the end of this chapter._

**xXx**

Those first few moments left Anise feeling giddy and exhausted. It was a confirmation of intelligence and went a long way toward making her feel better. No more was her mind a maelstrom of doubt and despair. She allowed herself to feel hopeful that things might work out after all.

**xXx**

Escthta was amazed at how much better he felt as the human's mood lifted. What had previously weighed him down with doubts and self-criticisms was being lifted off his shoulders. He remembered his dream, those weeks ago, and the nascent presence of Yugmnelsh suspended before him, as if underwater. _A gift_, he had said, to do with as he wished.

He watched the human in front of him, the tired look her face couldn't lose, and her exhaustion that told in her movements. He knew now what the Bathyrian had meant, that he had been given a gift, but it wasn't something to use at his will. It was a tool for the coming times, and it was one he would need desperately. He needed to discover and develop his abilities, instead of letting them dictate their own strength and focus.

H'chak-di was still clothed in the full bodysuit he'd found her in, and he rankled at the smell coming off of her; it was a mixture of the body's fear and filth, and it suddenly attacked the inside of his mouth, leaving him feeling slightly ill. The care of the body was as important as the care of the soul, but it had taken on new meaning with the yautja, for whom good hygiene was necessary.

Prey could smell them coming if they stank of gore and sweat and musk. Half the training an unBlooded went through was learning to mask his own scent while Hunting, so that he would not alarm the prey. Escthta was struck with the thought; if he could smell her, could she smell him? He had supposed for many years that not all the Hunted could detect their musk or smell. He would have to find out in due course from Thtarok whether the humans could capture their scents.

He felt protective of her, much the same way one protects a cherished heirloom, and if only for that reason, he would not have her enter the public baths. Only a riot could ensue, and she would almost certainly be killed. He felt a pang of guilt as that scenario played out in his mind. He remembered the blank eyes of the invalid male and the silent pleading in his mind – _In the name of anything you hold dear, take care of her._ He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in and trying to wash the stain of that memory away, trying to fade the human's message and the strength of his conviction. It worked, for the moment, as he watched her, small and helpless, the odor of death and sorrow heavy on the air.

He eyed his bathroom; the privilege of being an officer had been nestled behind his berth on the other side of a small metal door. A small, functional bathroom with a hand-shower and a sunken toilet. It would not be a substitute for the average yautja, who went to the baths to socialize as much as clean himself. However, it could prove useful in keeping H'chak-di out of harm's way. He clicked softly at her, saying her name again, watching as her eyes sought his and then looked away. It was a flighty response, one suiting for prey, and the dual oddness and familiarity of it prompted a gentleness he might not have otherwise felt.

"Come now. You smell horrible."

It was a terse assessment, one he knew she could not understand, but she seemed to grasp the bathroom quickly once shown how the facilities and the faucets worked. He only had to show her once, and she did it again herself without his help. He had to go about obtaining suitable clothing for her. He feared that there would only be the rags of slaves left, but he might be able to find something for her. After that, he would need his own visit to the baths.

He had been right about the unavailability of clothing, he soon discovered. There was not much to choose from, but he was finally able to procure a set of threadbare bedding, the fabric a faded, silvery grey. He was not trained in the manufacture of garments, but there were several slaves on board who were, and he would see to it that some clothes were made for her. He stopped by his quarters after leaving the lower decks, dropping the folded bedding on his desk and walking out.

There were few others in the baths as he entered; they were mostly engaged in excited conversation about the Hunts going on at the moment. Escthta heard the talking quiet as his presence was fully noticed in the room. He was easily the tallest yautja in the Clan and his presence was impossible for most to ignore. His quick disrobing and subsequent scrub in silence kept most mouths shut, however. He dug a few mites out of his shoulders, scrubbing the small inflammations to the best of his ability. His sensitive skin chafed in protest, but there was little else he could do. He smelled the blood of H'chak-di's kin rise as he scrubbed and was again beset by guilt.

He was confused at the ache in his chest; it was a human like any other he had killed, though he had taken no trophy. Perhaps, he mused, his brisk scrubbing slowing down, it was the female. He hadn't ever killed in front of a female before, unless she was also a warrior, in which case it was a moot point. He had also never killed in front of the prey's family. These two things and the human's final pleas gnawed at him with sharpened teeth. He rinsed himself with a hand shower, knowing it wouldn't clean away his disgust, and walked with muted steps over to an empty soaking tub. The warm, mineralized water relaxed him; he eased his arms up over the sides, resting on them and closing his eyes.

**xXx**

Paya was the Creator, a fierce mother goddess who created the Sea of Eternity and set a Great Ark afloat on its horizonless expanse. She taught her children, the sentient beings, the beginnings of civilization: philosophy, art, war, music, religion. The Yautja were her favorites, and to them she gave the most advanced ships and technology, along with the brains to understand it. Paya created the humans, the Hard Meat, and thousands of other races that spotted the stars. Paya said unto the first Yautja, "Be strong of heart, for though you leave me first, it is you I hold dearest. Take as my parting gift the Gift of the Hunt and go out into my glory and know my works."

But Paya's love was not for the Yautja alone. She was the All-Mother, and all things were dear and beloved to her. She named her second creation the Iantha, and the Iantha were never satisfied with being second best. They have always been called the Hard Meat by the Yautja, who lived to Hunt. The Iantha, eager to win Paya's foremost favor, modeled themselves after her. Queens of hives drew their strength from her will and modeled themselves after her, becoming strong and fierce warrior-mothers. They developed the virgin birth in her honor and they bred warriors to battle for Paya's favor against the first-created, the Yautja.

The humans were the last to leave her ark, and neither the Iantha nor their hunters ever knew what Paya told them.

Her task was finished, but Paya was filled with loneliness. She created for herself a pregnancy. She bore two sons. The firstborn was Cetanu, dark-skinned with fearsome dreadlocks, made in the image of her favorites. He was a violent-tempered son, and he smashed stars and worlds full of creatures for his amusement. Only when his mother threatened his total exile to the Deep Dark was he quieted. He began to Hunt, as his likenesses did, but his task became the caretaking of souls. The yautja named him the Black Warrior, and many who fought in early tribal raids claimed they saw an impossibly tall shadow stalking the dead.

**xXx**

Escthta lifted his head some minutes later, hearing the others leave. His thoughts of devotion had only half-distracted him from the human in his quarters. Regardless of his whereabouts, he could not divest himself of guilt or responsibility. He conjured up the dying faces of humans he had killed before, their widened eyes and lips wet with blood. Maybe that was another thing that unsettled him about killing the defenseless male; he had never done a mercy killing before, and it preyed on his mind. Had it been merciful?

He settled on the only course of action he could decide upon. In the past, he had visions without his consent, without warning. This evening, he would try to trigger them on his own. If anyone had answers to his concerns, he suspected the Bathyrian did. Yugmnelsh controlled the thoughtpaths of the universe, or so he had said, and seeing into others' thoughts and emotions would surely grant him some sort of clairvoyant experience.

**xXx**

Gulchak sat in the _kehrite_, seething with discontent. He knew his musk would alert the others around him to his charged state, but he didn't care. A filthy ooman had been brought on board, not as trophy, but as prize to be ferried back to the Council. He spat in disgust. Unlike most yautja, who obeyed Council decree that no females be taken, Gulchak was a woman-killer. Gender wasn't a concern to him; they bred like vermin and taking a few females wouldn't matter. Many of the skulls on his trophy wall were diminutive with smaller muscle attachment sites and less pronounced processes.

His inability to distinguish between prey and breeders—no, he knew the difference and didn't care—was what had cost him the Leadership. He remembered the hulking Councilman inspecting his trophy wall, and the knowing looks as he was told he couldn't qualify for Leadership. "You may yet have some other purpose," the Councilman had murmured, and indeed, Gulchak had found it on this ship. The blatant favoritism shown Cthinde rankled him, but the Councilman's promise of honor had lingered in his ears like a buzzing insect. The ooman childmaker had missed someone's spear and ended up in an officer's quarters. He sipped at his drink, feeling the liquor's fire in his veins. Someone on the Council had paid him in skulls and slaves to make sure she never arrived.

He wondered briefly if the science officer's tastes ran to the ooman females. It was revolting and frowned upon to the point of exile, but not punishable by death. Gulchak recalled a fiasco a few years ago involving an Elder and a human female. The female had been put to death and the Elder relegated to a spectator's position in society. No yautja females would have him, and his line had effectively been destroyed. All that for a human female that couldn't breed warriors. _Served him right_, he thought. _Anything stupid enough to fuck one of them doesn't need to be breeding._

So it was with great malice that he eyed Escthta, the science officer, as he entered the common room. The Storyteller, as he had begun to be called among the Blooded, was the tallest yautja on board. There was a power in his limbs that Gulchak both feared and envied, but his blood was boiling hot with a self-righteous fire. He stood, taking one last swig of the _c'ntlip_ that had fogged his mind with thoughts of anger and violence, and then threw the drinking vessel at a nearby slave, relishing the thunk against his head and the yelp of surprise.

The cry drew eyes from all over the wide room; the stink of his angry musk had been heavy in the air for a while and all could tell that it wouldn't be long before a challenge was made. Indeed, the onlookers were correct. Gulchak wasn't nearly as tall as Escthta, but his shoulders were broader and more heavily muscled. His stocky body was quite a match for anyone on board, but his bloodlust led him straight to Escthta.

Gulchak's swift strides brought him up behind Escthta quickly; he made the lunge for the taller Hunter's shoulder, shoving him hard. Escthta took a step forward, but caught his assailant's hand over his shoulder and turned slowly with his hand around Gulchak's bulky wrist. Gulchak's breath stank of alcohol, but the set of his head and the way his mandibles flared were a direct challenge. Escthta hissed softly at him. "There is no honor in killing a drunk."

Gulchak roared and lunged for Escthta, his claws out. Escthta braced himself, catching the dangerous hand that was aimed at his throat and easily toppling the drunk Gulchak to the floor. He hissed in warning and then continued toward Cthinde's side.

"_S'yuit-de!_" Gulchak bellowed, "Coward!"

Escthta spun in his tracks and walked back to where Gulchak was getting up unsteadily. "You call me coward?"

"What else could you be? An ooman childmaker." He scanned the taller yautja, his eyes hard with anger. "Who would have thought we'd have a sick fuck like you on board." There was a hush, a baited-breath silence to see what the outranking Blooded would do. Eyes were on him, and his judgment was going on in the brains behind them. The taller yautja's hands made the signs for combat, one-on-one. It was not a claw-challenge. This was a fight to the death. Death-challenges were best avoided on a Hunt, but what Gulchak said was unforgivable. There would be a fight and someone was going to die.

**xXx**

The combatants wore minimal armor and carried only the serrated wrist-blades so common in hand-to-hand combat. Escthta had chosen a handicap by refusing to wear torso armor; it was a further insult to Gulchak, who sneered at Escthta from across the arena. He made a show of checking his weapon and its sharpness, but Escthta paid him no mind. The pre-fight silence began to fall, and Escthta crouched into a wide-legged stance, prepared to attack or feint when the fight had begun.

Cthinde had appeared to oversee the fight, and his face was austere with the implications. It was the first death-challenge he would be ruling on as Leader, and his best friend was involved. It was important that he not call the end of the fight too soon or he would be seen playing favorites and it would breed contempt in the Clan. If Escthta began to lose, he still was not sure if he would call the fight to save his friend's life. It would be dishonorable to deny him a death in battle, but to die at Gulchak's hands with the kind of slander he had thrown about was a wretched death almost preferable to dishonor. Still unsure of his role in what might yet be a bloodbath, Cthinde raised his arms. "_Dtai'k-de!_"

Gulchak shrieked and charged toward Escthta, swiping wildly at him with his wrist-blades. The air where Escthta had been standing sang as the blades ripped through it, but Escthta was unfazed. He stepped backwards, putting some space between himself and Gulchak. Gulchak's mandibles were flared wide, and Escthta saw the flush of blood in his mouth, the unmistakable sign of having drunk too much, but it was only for a moment as Gulchak lunged at him again. Escthta blocked the wild strike with his forearm guard and put his weight behind a punch into Gulchak's gut. The muscles in the torso were soft and unprepared for a blow; a few more strikes like that would make him unable to fight.

The crowd screamed in their blood frenzy and the air was thick with the smell of aggression. Gulchak staggered back, one hand held close to his abdomen. Ropes of spittle dripped from his mandibles, and he only took a moment to recuperate before attacking again. Escthta ducked under the other's charge quickly, his kneeling form sliding under his guard. With a quick motion, Escthta stood, flipping Gulchak onto his back. The spectators howled with glee; it was a move that would have decided a winner in a claw-challenge and it was a sign that the fight was at last getting serious.

Gulchak sputtered, but rolled out of the way before Escthta's well-placed foot could crush his sternum. The foot-plant raised a small puff of the dust that covered the floor of the training ring, but no-one noticed it in the scuffle that followed. The combatants locked arms, each trying to outdo each other in strength. Gulchak had the advantage; his fingers curled between Escthta's and his claws pierced the tough top of his hand. Escthta hissed and spat in Gulchak's face. Gulchak reached up to wipe away the saliva, taken off-guard by the tactic, and Escthta saw his chance. He hooked his foot behind Gulchak's knee and tugged, collapsing the joint and sending Gulchak sprawling into the dirt in a heap.

His sense of victory was short-lived; the stockier yautja reached out and slashed at Escthta's leg with his _ki'cti-pa_. The blades were half-deflected by the shin guards that Escthta wore, but one of the cold tangs carved a jagged wound into Escthta's calf. He howled and clutched at the ragged hole in his leg that streamed bright green. His hand was coated with blood and he screamed his rage at Gulchak. The blow had been lucky, but it severely limited Escthta's use of his left leg. He held it half-off the ground, his clawed toes dangling in the dust. Gulchak leered at his opponent, his arrogance finding footing in his successful strike. "Does it hurt, humanfucker?"

Escthta would later explain that he never moved from where he stood; but he was suddenly across the ring, looming over Gulchak. Without hesitation, he buried his wrist-blades in Gulchak's abdomen. The crowded room keened with shock, admiration and ecstasy. Even though the pain in his leg seared his nerves with fire, he jerked the blades deeper into the stunned yautja's flesh. With a twist, he pulled them out and stepped back, slinging chunks of gore into the silt. Gulchak had yet to cry out, but his hand was pressed over the seeping wound; the body's high pressure systems had been compromised and Escthta knew that organs struggled to peek out from behind his fingers.

Gulchak wheezed when he breathed, but he lifted his fists again, the edge of his blades still glinting green. Escthta growled low, his mandibles flared wide and threatening. Gulchak was beginning to look pale; the small trickle of blood had darkened a pile of silt under him. Escthta began to lower his hands; there was no point in fighting someone who was mortally wounded.

Gulchak exploded. "Don't underestimate me!"

He staggered into a run, and his speed surprised Escthta, who limped out of the way of his blades, but got a set of claw-marks on his arm for his trouble. Gulchak swung his thick arm toward him, and Escthta blocked it with his guard again, only to catch the other fist on the temple. His vision went spotty, but Gulchak had been hurt as much by the assault as he had. Escthta could hear the wound sucking as he panted; he'd gotten one of Gulchak's lungs, and the watery noise when he breathed was a sickening sound.

Escthta shook his head to clear it, squinting at his opponent. Gulchak had lowered his head, and seemed to be gathering strength for a final attack. With a hoarse cry, he first shuffled and then rushed toward Escthta, his blades outstretched. The attack was obvious, and Escthta found himself stepping aside from the dying warrior.

Though his leg was deeply wounded, he spun himself around to catch Gulchak's shoulder as he barreled past. He buried his fingers in the other yautja's tress and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. His eyes calmly met the glassy, panic-filled gaze of Gulchak, who knew that this was the end. The crowd hushed; the death blow was something that none would have wanted to miss in their violent revelry. With a keening noise of his own, Escthta dug his claws into the column of his throat and ripped out the viscera, casting them into the dirt behind him. The green-white of Gulchak's spine showed weakly through the gaping hole. Gulchak's eyes widened in shock that could not be hidden, then they fluttered closed and he was gone.

Silence followed Escthta as he left Gulchak's body, his left leg nearly useless. He limped to Cthinde for the approval of his victory. Cthinde looked at the body and then at his friend, splattered with blood. He would never show his relief at having the difficult choice made for him, but only nodded slowly. Escthta's win was valid, and the murmur of the yautja began to hum through the room again. Gulchak's body was dragged away and Escthta leaned on Cthinde as they limped through the halls to the infirmary.

**xXx**

A dish of thick brown soap was the only one available. Anise dragged a finger through the yielding goo and sniffed at it cautiously. There was an acrid quality that she couldn't quite place, and her fingertips began to sting in short order. She flung the stuff away from her violently, washing what remained off her hand with the spray. Obviously, the soap was formulated for the Hunters, as she was getting accustomed to calling them. The wall of skulls had been a tapestry of memento, and they were trophies as much as any deer's head or antler rack.

She rubbed her fingers together absently, unable to quite divest herself of the slippery soap or its granules, but it didn't sting any more. She looked around for a vessel to dilute the soap in, but failing to find one, simply mixed a small daub of it in her hands again, working fast enough to avoid the gnaw of the basic solution. She washed her scalp and arms and legs, pleased to find that there was some grit in the soap to abrade her dead skin. She wrinkled her nose as she realized how badly she smelled. Stale sweat, fear and blood all fell before her earnest scrubbing.

The water made her skin flush a bright red, but she continued to scrub until her skin didn't feel slippery any more and then shut the water off. A cursory examination of the area produced no towels, so she was left with little option but to air-dry. She eyed the bodysuit in a heap on the floor and felt her heart sink at having to wear it again. She had worn it in a different time, when her brother had lived and her heart had been something approaching light. After a moment's hesitation, she spread it and her undergarments flat on the tiled shower floor and scrubbed at them with the soap, working until foam no longer rose up. She spread it out to dry on the half-wall that separated the shower from the facilities.

By this time, her hair had formed stringy clumps that were dry on the outside, but wet on the inside. Her skin had completely dried, and except for a slight bit of irritation, she was clean. Anise poked her head out of the washroom, finding the adjoining room deserted. She looked around, at a loss for clothes until she saw the folded pile on the bunk. Was she supposed to make his bed? Would this be her trade-off for leaving the human world? Was she free or a slave? She felt a chill on her exposed skin as she let her imagination run wild.

_Calm down, Anise,_ she told herself. _If I find him ugly, he probably finds me ugly._ She cherished that thought, using it to wholly convince herself that she wouldn't be asked to do anything sexual and finding it only slightly more comforting than the thought of slavery in general. After she'd fought down the fear and nausea, she picked up the folded cloth. The silvery grey felt slick between her fingers, and she reached down to touch the sheets on the bed with her other hand; the materials were similar, but the ones she held seemed of a higher quality.

After only a moment's hesitation, she unfolded them and tried to decide how to clothe herself. After a few experiments, she tied together the corners of each sheet's short side and put her head through the hole it made. She had nothing to belt it together with, but her eyes fell on the knife again. That knife…she shook her head clear and removed her makeshift toga, cutting a wide strip from the back hem to use as a belt The back was significantly shorter now, but it occurred to her that she could pull the longer front swath between her legs and tuck it into the belt in the back if it was necessary. The wide belt acted more like a corset, but the desired effect was achieved; an easy-to-wear garment that kept her fairly modest.

Now she was dressed, but the room had been empty now for hours; she wondered where Talon had gone, if he was going to be gone very long. Her stomach felt decidedly empty, and she rubbed it absently and twitched at the gurgle produced. She feared to touch anything in the room; the earlier glimpse of his life had been fraught with ritual and she had the unnerving feeling that her welcome would wear needlessly thin if she disturbed anything.

Instead, she walked to the large fresco that she knew concealed the skulls. Now that she could see it closely, she could see that the small figures dancing at the bottom were his kind; they held heads aloft on pikes, and even in the stone, their dreadlocks and tusks seemed to roil and quiver with the kind of frenzy their Hunt would bring. She rubbed her arms, warding off the goosebumps that tickled her skin when she thought of being hunted by them.

The door beeped softly behind her and then slid open. Talon and Fang walked in, side by side, although the taller had his arm around Fang's shoulders, using them as a crutch. Anise felt worry rise up inside her; Talon was a murderer, but he was the only thing keeping her alive. It was a well-developed sense of self-preservation that prompted her gasp and quick steps to where Fang was helping him into the berth.

Anise could see his injuries then; a thick padded cuff was wrapped around his leg, and green-stained bandages peeked out from its edges. There were similar green marks like those from claws, and a nasty bruise near his temple. She looked at Fang, and reined in her revulsion at his face. He was also without his mask, his face the same strange jumble of angles. His eyes were a dark green, and she imagined that they glittered with anger at her. She lowered her gaze, doing her best to act subservient.

Fang turned his head back to Talon and chittered in a low voice. He then turned away, moving to leave. "Thank you," Anise said, before she could remember her place. Fang stopped and turned back, walking until he nearly touched her. "For helping him." She gestured to the drowsy Talon, who was already half asleep from the pain killers. Fang followed her hand and then looked back at her. He clicked softly, that long, drawn-out chatter that Anise had come to think of as pensive.

He suddenly growled at her, his mandibles flaring out and exposing the sharp teeth. When she didn't move, the growl became a roar. Anise cringed and closed her eyes, but didn't move. The roar quit, and she heard Talon say something from the bed. Fang, breathing slightly fast, grunted and then shoved her shoulder. She knew somehow that she was to shove him back, the thought planted in her mind. She reached up to his shoulder, nearer to her than Talon's had been, and gave it a hard push.

**xXx**

Cthinde looked down at the human with a mixture of doubt and curiosity. He had tried to frighten the human, but she hadn't budged through his tirade. And now, Paya knew how, she had officially greeted him. He felt his guts wrench with confusion, swaying between allegiance to his friend, and everything he had ever been taught. The battle pulled him out of balance and left him teetering on the edge of what could reasonably be called comfort.

His adrenaline was up, though he was not in a Hunt, and his breathing changed. This human was no warrior and hardly looked dangerous. A niggling voice in the back of his head reminded him of the Hunters that had died when underestimating their prey.

He looked over at Escthta, and his look was enough of a question. Escthta's mandibles were nearly slack, and Cthinde took this as the reason for his delayed answer. "Her name is H'chak-di."

"You named her that?"

"I did."

Cthinde looked down at the human again. A woman of mercy. The name gave him pause. There was something that Escthta was not sharing with him, and it had a lot to do with why she was named Mercy. He said her name to her, like one does a pet, and was further startled when she patted her chest and parroted it back at him. She tapped him on the chest and said something in her strange tongue, something that sounded like a sharp pain. He looked at Escthta again.

"It is her name for you." Escthta's voice was slurred.

Cthinde half-smiled in his way, his head tilting to the side. The name like pain pleased him in a way he couldn't explain. He looked her over once more and then turned on his clawed foot, moving out the door and leaving his friend at her mercy.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _The deities Paya and Cetanu are rooted in canon. In the canon, Paya is not explicitly given a sex, but is referred to as the "conquering warrior", with all its masculine connotations. I can't see a culture with such powerful female figures bowing down before a male god. I think the ladies would put their collective male ass in a microwave if the men even thought about seizing control. The Sea of Eternity is my own creation myth, as the meager hints at one in the canon are tied to the "male" Paya. _


	9. Numen

_See Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

Anise sat at Talon's side after Fang left. His breathing was slow and even, and she watched the strangeness of his face in sleep. His mandibles relaxed some, and she could see the fleshy folds inside his mouth. Each tusk moved independently of the others; some twitched with some imagined dream. She looked closer and saw his eyes moving beneath his eyelids. It was a small relief for her; the huge alien was her lifeline.

She watched him quietly, and then realized he was wearing armored guards. The leg without the bandage had a guard on it. His arms, too, were guarded with long metal cuffs on the forearms. His wounds couldn't be an accident, although she had hardly believed they would be. Someone had fought with him. She wondered if it had been a serious fight, or if they entertained injuries like this all the time. He shifted, and she leaned over him, trying to see how the cuff worked, and if she could take it off his leg. Armor, she reasoned, was not for sleeping in.

The catch was on the other side of his leg, and with some effort, she managed to remove the molded metal from around his calf. His skin was smooth and warm, but she dared not touch him further. She did the same for his arms, looking for the catch on the outside of the limb. It was there, the same sliding piece that had held the greave in place, and she clicked it back, unhinging the cuffs and setting them aside.

She sat back from him and then eased herself down to the floor. His extraneous armor was strewn about her and needed to be picked up, but she watched him sleep until the lack of food and her own nerves got to her. She rested her head against the bed just for a moment, but could not find the strength to lift it again.

**xXx**

The darkness was there again, pressing in on him from all sides. Escthta was exhausted from his fight with Gulchak, but he intended to follow through on his efforts to speak to Yugmnelsh again. His limbs felt heavy and slow, like they would in water, but he moved them and felt no pain. He was aware he had form then. He had imagined himself into being in this dream, but there was no other existence; he hung alone and motionless in a void.

_You have to concentrate,_ he reminded himself. If there were thoughtpaths and Yugmnelsh controlled them, could he not just find one and walk down it? He turned his head in the thick blackness and looked for a path, but could not see one. He tried to push himself or swim in the murk, but as he had no points of reference, he could not see how he was going, or where. It was a situation that left Escthta in the same place he had started.

He stopped his thrashing about and tried to find another way. He was here in the void, so there must be a way to find the Bathyrian, but he simply had to think of it. Thinking, thoughts, thoughtpaths; he had never heard of the last before the meeting with Yugmnelsh. If a thought was a path, he could just think his way there, couldn't he? His eyes closed and he tried to think of the Bathyrian's appearance, hoping he could will it into existence as he had himself.

Something brushed his finger, the faintest hint of contact. Without opening his eyes or breaking his concentration, he lifted his fingers and found a single bit of rope, slender and slick in his hands. He tested it slowly, sliding it between his fingers, and then twisted his hand to grab it. As his fingers closed around it, it pulled taut, almost out of his grip. He tightened his hand and was slowly aware that he was moving, or that something was happening, though he could not guess what.

He opened his eyes, slowly. The blackness was slowly giving way to that ancient form that had seen use since the beginning of life. There was not a light, but the blackness lessened and the Bathyrian's coils and domed head emerged from the gloom. Yugmnelsh rumbled faintly, that deep and bone-trembling sound which was nearly familiar now.

"You return. I am impressed."

Escthta inclined his head slightly and the Bathyrian thrummed. "You come here seeking answers, but I do not know if I am the one to give them to you." There was a pause. "I am not sure they should be _given_ at all."

"What must I do to earn them, then?"

The responding voice was gruff, but surprised. "Earn them? Hardly." There was a bitterness there that seemed sudden, as though it came from an old complaint. "You will have to find them for yourself."

Escthta felt his shoulders fall, but did not turn away. There was assurance he needed, and the Bathyrian was the only one he could seek it from. "Was it merciful? Did I do the right thing?"

The Bathyrian coughed a sarcastic laugh. "Your kind has never been concerned with the right thing. Paya granted you her favored status, but you have not earned it." The Bathyrian's voice seemed to chill slightly. "And now you are going to be paying for it."

Escthta froze, and his eyes could not leave the twin spheres of obsidian that were perched at an ungainly angle on the Bathyrian's head. They were endless, and no matter how he prepared for them, their blank stare always cut through Escthta's most steadfast intentions.

"Your society is crumbling, is it not? There is more concern for glory bought with blood, and less for the preservation of Paya's works." Escthta was speechless. The yautja and their mighty technology on the verge of crumbling? Although he could not deny that a new breed of bloodthirsty Hunter had been on the rise, surely it did not push their society to the point of no return? The Bathyrian's voice hushed. "There is a balance to these things. And it is tipping."

Escthta moved to the side as one of Yugmnelsh's prime tentacles moved alongside him. The tentacle moved in the shape of a form, and a ghostlike image of H'chak-di formed like mist on water. "You know this being?"

Escthta was made uneasy by the spectre; the likeness was uncanny. He turned to Yugmnelsh. "I do. She is a human."

Yugmnelsh rumbled, "And how is it that a Yautja, one of Paya's first, comes to know one of her lowest works?"

"She… I was asked to collect a human by the Council."

The Bathyrian went quiet and then seemed to exhale, as there was a long, slow hissing that Escthta could not explain. The hissing went on at length, but finally, Yugmnelsh spoke.

"Your Council seeks to use this human for research, do they?"

Escthta felt, rather than saw, the play of a wry smile in the Bathyrian's countenance.

"I don't suppose they told you what they'll do to her when they have her in their laboratories?"

Escthta looked at H'chak-di's wraith and then back at the Bathyrian.

"No. I don't know what they'll do to her."

Yugmnelsh bared his toothy mouth and Escthta narrowed his eyes at the gruesome grin.

"I know her fate," Yugmnelsh said silkily. "Would you like to see?"

Escthta wavered with indecision. His curiosity picked at him like a scab, until finally it got the better of him. "I have seen the insides of scores of humans. Nothing you can show me will affect me."

Yugmnelsh's grin faded into a grim line. "You are confident, Escthta."

Escthta blinked at the use of his name, a seething sound in Yugmnelsh's mouth. The prime tentacle circled close to him, the thin blue claw on the underside curved and wicked. Yugmnelsh's touch was tender, but once the claw pierced his temple, there was nothing held back.

It was only a split second, but Yugmnelsh preferred a 'trial by fire' and dealt him the full force of the thoughtpath. Thoughtpaths were very much like rivers. Rivers may dry up and lose their water, but the longer a river flows, the more easily water will find its way back between its banks. Thoughtpaths differed from rivers in that one must consciously have a thought; it is not the whim of nature to force beings into thoughts they wish to escape.

Yugmnelsh, in his cursory examination of the thoughtpath, saw it worn deep, encrusted with emotions and desires until it was fairly a trench. The thoughtpath was an all-consuming obsession, and even the slimmest taste that was afforded Escthta was too much for him to take. He felt the force, the singular purpose, of all thoughts that had been there before, and the living ones that were dwelled on even now, and he sank to his knees.

Yugmnelsh retracted the claw as quickly as he had slid it in. The budding Psionic was strong; in all his eons of marshaling those who would Speak, he could remember few that did not cry out when the full force of a thoughtpath was brought to bear on their minds for the first time. Though he did not need to, the yautja gulped in air out of habit. Deep breaths calmed him as he shoved the red images away from him. His voice was weak and ragged; "What _was_ that?" Yugmnelsh paused before answering. "Thtarok."

The tentacle withdrew and hovered pensively near the human's shoulder. Escthta looked at the human and watched the tentacle as it moved through and around her. Yugmnelsh pulled his prime tentacle fully away, and it disappeared into the gently pulsing coils.

"Regardless of what you saw, you must keep this human close to you."

"What about the Council?"

Yugmnelsh flipped a tentacle tip with nonchalance. "You will not have any problems with them."

Escthta got to his feet, resuming his towering height over the human's small brown head. "Why?" He was struck with a realization. Could H'chak-di also be capable of Speech?  
Yugmnelsh's eyes narrowed, a shrewd expression wrinkling what Escthta could see of his face. "You believe her to be Psionic?"  
Escthta, his heart beginning to beat hard, nodded slowly. It was obvious, now that Yugmnelsh had asked such a leading question. "Why else should I keep her close?"

Yugmnelsh did not confirm the yautja's suspicions. Try as he might, the ancient one's mind was too strong for Escthta's untrained brain to pierce and he gave up, half-ashamed for even trying. An uncomfortable silence followed, but Yugmnelsh swelled, as if he breathed in, and then extended a prime tentacle to caress the ethereal human form.

His strangely fanged maw opened, fleshy bits rolling in and out of the mouth like waves as the Bathyrian spoke. "If you keep her close, her power will fully show itself in due time."

**xXx**

Anise awoke to a hand on her head. The touch was light, stroking her hair. It reminded her of girlhood and a father with large hands that worked all day and played guitar at night. But there were no guitars here, and the hand on her head had long black claws. She lifted her head suddenly, finding Talon propped up on one elbow in his berth. His yellow eyes were staring at her, but his gaze was not as hard as she had found Fang's. His eyes were half-lidded and they rolled shut easily, but always opened on her.

He trilled softly at her, and the sound was not unpleasant. Still, she stood slowly, feeling her muscles protest. Talon was no kitten, no tame animal that gave its love unquestioningly. The trill was a noise she counted as some measure of manipulation. She would not be lulled into a false sense of security. He shifted and then his eyes broke away to look at his arm; the claw-marks had opened and were seeping the strange blood, glowing in the darkened berth. Anise looked at it, at him, and then stepped forward.

The edge of her dress easily soaked up the little blood that was there. "These should be bandaged," she grumbled; the scratches were in truth rather deep troughs that had been carved into him. She looked at him, at the clicking together of his tusks and then sighed. "I suppose you people aren't into really healing things, are you?" Her sarcastic remark earned her no smile, no acknowledgement, just more of the same steady gaze he'd regarded her with.

She sighed, leaning back, pulling the hem of her dress through her fingers, smoothing and re-folding the fabric. There was an intimacy in eye contact, and to share it with him on an extended basis invited her thoughts to go in wholly the wrong direction. Something about the bald-faced way he looked at her made her feel guilty and exposed, like her thoughts were laid bare. Maybe there was no such thing as guilt in his culture.

Her stomach lodged a complaint with her brain, a dull ache that felt like empty, and she rubbed her abdomen absently. Her voice was hoarse and scratchy when she spoke. "I haven't eaten in days. I don't suppose there is anything fit for a human here?"

He gave an extended rumble, a series of deep clicks below any human register she had ever heard, and reclined again, resting his hands on his stomach. The motion had no meaning at all to her, and she watched his breathing in silence, wondering why she bothered asking at all, when the food came.

The creature that brought in the food was, she realized, one of the Hunters, although she did not see it at first. It would have been as tall as she was had it stood upright, but its torso was lowered parallel to the ground, a tray carried suspended between skinny arms. Its hair was ragged and not in the dreadlocks she had come to expect. The tusks had broken off long ago, and the fleshy mouth had little to no protection. It wore a small, ragged loincloth, encrusted with filth and barely there, but Anise could see a male chest. The small tray he carried had small bowls and covered plates on it, and he set it on the desk near Talon. He did not seem to notice Anise at all, but then he turned to leave after Talon motioned it away.

Beady yellow eyes locked on her, and she tried to smile helpfully. His scream was ear-splitting; the shriek of madness and hate chilled Anise's blood, and Talon's replying roar was equally terrifying. The slave darted out of the room, but not before spitting hissing words filled with vitriol, and his indignant howls were heard echoing down the halls until the doors slid closed.

Her nerves frayed, she looked at Talon, who was up on one elbow again. He grunted softly and then jerked his head toward the tray on his desk. She stood obediently, used to caretaking without being asked and deciding that it wouldn't matter if it was an injured alien or her brother. She uncovered the plates, finding cooked meat, a bowl of broth and a small cup of some clear fluid. It was a Spartan meal; for her part, she managed to wolf down the meat without questioning what it was. The broth was barely salted and nearly tasteless, but rich with some warmth she couldn't put her finger on. She felt refreshed and energized after she finished it, and the soothing effects of a full belly began to work their magic on her.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn relaxed in his private bath, his hand loosely balancing a cup of liquor on the edge of the soaking tub. The quiet times on the homeworld between Councils was something he cherished, for the streets were barely crowded and the task of an Elder was not much task at all. In a few months' time he would be assigned to another ship to begin watching for another Leader. The number of Leaderships for the next Council had not yet been decided, and they largely depended on how many unBlooded were going to be going on training Hunts, as well as other factors.

_Other factors_, he thought to himself, _like the females_. They had only just left, departing the homeworld for the broodworld that was uncharted in all Yautja ships, save one, the mother ship that bore them here. The location of the broodworld had been a sort of Grail for the average Blooded. The coordinates had been discovered some years ago by a Clan, and they had gone to take possession of the females they supposed were theirs. At the next council, their damaged skulls, suitable for no trophy wall, had been thrown into the arena and used as spear targets by the females. All attempts to subvert the females' rule had been unsuccessful.

Hir'cyn dangled a claw into the water, breathing deeply of the perfumed steam. It was just as well, he supposed. The males ruled themselves, but all Council votes were subject to approval by the females, specifically one female. Paya's avatar, the Holy Mother, Matriarch, that most fertile of vessels that Paya honored with her own name. It was said she had borne over three hundred sucklings, some of them among the greatest Hunters their race had ever known. Her age was unknown, but she was over a millennium old by Hir'cyn's reckoning, making her one of the oldest members of their race alive.

Most of the yautja were not aware of the females pulling the Council's strings, and it was well that it remained so. Although any Councilman would answer honestly if asked, none wished to know how much sway the Matriarch really had. The large majority of males were content with the Hunting and posturing that their separated states provided them, and most would not be able to understand the complicated position that they were in.

Most would not, but some did ask, and they could find their answer in the Library of Pthor'da, a medium-sized building in an out-of-the-way part of the City. All the texts had been gathered when the remaining settlements on the planet had been consolidated into the City. Ancient maps with territorial lines and country names might still be found within its walls, but few young Blooded cared to look. There were a few, however, though whether they would assume the tasks of the already aged library caretakers remained to be seen.

As far as the current Council was concerned, much of the past was dust to be swept away and there was no honor, imagined or otherwise, in preserving the past. So, many of the outlying regional libraries had fallen into disrepair and the decision was made to gather all of them into one. Hir'cyn imagined the hulking ruins of abandoned cities being reclaimed by the jungle in this weather belt, and wondered where his race would be when their words were worn away by rain, and the mighty stones their ancient ancestors had erected to Paya had fallen and cracked.

It was his own respect for the past that caused him to be so involved in the choosing of future Leaders. There was a place for learned yautja on the Council; the scientist, the historian, the strategist, they all had their places in the decision-making process. But schools had long since stopped teaching anything but the most basic numbers and speech. A yautja with two thousand operable words could easily get by in life without worrying about what letters meant. The true Glory was in the Hunt, and they sought it earlier and earlier in life. Some of the young that were training in Hunts were only 75 years of age, practically children.

And yet, there were things that were beyond his reach. He didn't like the look of some of the Councilmen; Thtarok disturbed him, even more than the fat idiot, Bruyaun. Kvar'ye also raised warning flags, but for different reasons. There was a calculating chill about Thtarok, whereas he suspected Kvar'ye was just the opposite, a hothead that would get them all slaughtered. Hir'cyn had the ear of the Council closer than most. Tjat'le was a close personal friend of his, but his head had shaken when Hir'cyn expressed his concerns. They were the best to be found for their places right now, and there were no others that could fill their positions.

Hir'cyn sighed and stood in the bath, stretching his muscles that had grown stiff. He toweled himself off, his brow furrowed with thought. That had been, of course, the moment when he himself had found out about the females' involvement.

_But you're the Head of the Council! Can't you just boot them out?_

His exasperation had been high and it had shown in his voice, but Tjat'le told him about the females and their Matriarch, their laws that governed how many laws the males could make, how much freedom they had. Hir'cyn had known the females had their own laws, but that they had dominion over him he had hardly guessed.

So when he had heard of the _Zanna_'s first mission, to collect a human specimen, he was surprised, but not wholly. Anything the Council did was the will of the Matriarch. The reasons the Matriarch had for wanting a female human were unknown, but Hir'cyn could hardly imagine she was wanted for honorable combat. The humans did not display an extensive degree of sexual dimorphism. The females were hardly different from the males. If it was combat the Matriarch wanted, a male would do as well as a female. _No_, Hir'cyn thought, there were other things at work here, many more layers of deception and intrigue than his slaves or spies could search through. Cthinde and Escthta's lives were in danger, as they were on all Hunts, but there was something more to their Hunt that hadn't been divulged by Tjat'le, even when plied with liquor, and it gnawed at Hir'cyn's mind.

**xXx**

Escthta watched H'chak-di eat, pausing in his own repast to observe her. He had finished the protein broth first, knowing it would banish the chill of Yugmnelsh's words from his limbs. His hand was still curled around the bowl, and he sipped absently at the fruit juice that accompanied the curative meal. H'chak-di was cutting her teeth on one end of the meat, sucking the flesh away from the bone. Her face was covered with the fats and juices of the rhynth joint and she seemed to enjoy the flavor. He chuckled, surprised at himself finding joy in watching humans.

The Bathyrian had offered no guidance on H'chak-di's power or how it would manifest itself. He had said that her power would show if he kept her close. He tilted his head slightly in spite of himself, wondering how close the Bathyrian meant him to keep her. What would he have to do to unlock her power? He did not have the venom-laden fangs to awaken her power, and Oggohlb could not be visited. Yugmnelsh was not even corporeal. The inner battle knit his brow together, and H'chak-di noticed in moments. She uttered something, her voice rising on the end of her speech, in the intonation that he was coming to recognize as inquisition. He chattered back at her, nonsense words, really, and she prattled on in her strange little language for another half a minute.

Silence returned as she found another corner of the meat to chew, and he picked at his, sliding the thin strips of rhynth into his mouth between finger and thumb. He could feel his leg aching very clearly now; the drugs given in the infirmary had worn off, and he could feel the part that was not-him, the muscle replacement gel that had already seen use in his other leg. He would have matching blank spots in the nerve endings in his calves.

The human looked up at him and then asked something, another question. He tried to use his mind to divine her intent, but his thoughts were not focused, and they fell away from her alien brain with no information. She made a musical noise, although it was like no music any yautja had ever played. Yautja music was rarely played, and when it was, it consisted mostly of drums and a small scattering of woodwinds and stringed instruments. The yautja had no talent for music, but understood the beating of drums plenty enough. Escthta loved the drums, loved the feeling of his organs vibrating when he stood near to them.

She was looking at him expectantly, and he coughed softly, wondering what she could possibly want. She made strange motions in the air, and after the third set of gestures, he recognized one as a _sth'ki_, a flute made by hollowing out the leg bone of a Queen. Unfortunately, most of the intricate instruments had been replaced by lesser versions, but he had heard an original once, in the hands of an Elder on Syu'ne's ship. It had moved him deeply, as all flutes in the Yautja culture were meant to do. They brought on meditation and sent the souls of the dead into Cetanu's host. When _sth'ki_ were played, it was a time for reflection on life and death.

When he did not respond to the flute cue, she continued to make movements, and he realized she was pantomiming instruments. She wanted music, or wanted to know about music. He shook his head slowly, grateful that the motion carried across their cultures. The negative moment made her blink and then her expression fell. Her voice was tiny when she replied again, and he just shook his head no, deciding it was better than trying to explain what gestures could not tell. The lack of communication frustrated him; they had touched minds once, hadn't they? Why could he not reach her now?

He watched her in the aftermath of her questions, how her voracious appetite had seemingly been satisfied, and she picked up the bowls and bones, putting them on the tray and sliding them out the door. It was a smart thing, he realized; a slave wouldn't have to come in the room and repeat the previous debacle. He sighed, reclining again, feeling the stiffness in his joints from being immobile even for a small while. Slaves were normally not much for conversation; the deformed and the runts were shunted into slavery. But they picked up their culture secondhand from the Hunters, and their hatred of humans was purer than that of the Hunters. Hunters could at least respect a human as an equal adversary, or in H'chak-di's case, a valuable commodity.

The slave's garbled words had barely been intelligible, but there was enough savagery in a deformed yautja to kill a human female. Escthta's roar of reprimand had been enough to shock the slave into leaving, but Escthta knew that the slave would have wasted no time in communicating with other slaves in their pidgin speech: there was a human female aboard, being treated better than any yautja slave. His secret mission for Thtarok had become more than just talk among the crew. It was common knowledge now, and anyone that wanted to know where the female was could find her. What they would do with her if they found her was not hard to guess.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Thank you to my friends, Cendri and Drakonlily, for their patience with my snippets._

An online dictionary defines numen as a "presiding divinity or spirit of a place". Further down on the entry's page, it elaborates: "a spirit believed to inhabit an object or preside over a place (especially in ancient Roman religion)." You may draw your own conclusions about the identity of the "numen" in this chapter.

_On the sons of Paya: Dear Reader, I am glad you were sharp enough to spot that omission. But I am sure you have realized by now that I do not omit anything without a reason; I have not mentioned it because it might spoil much of what I have planned for Escthta. Your curiosity will be satisfied in a later chapter, I promise._


	10. A Steamy Encounter

_See Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

Escthta's sleep was fragmented the night before they reached the homeworld. He had spent much of his time in seclusion with H'chak-di, and they had worked out a rudimentary form of language using hand signals and grunts, but more than that, he was actually able to sense thoughts with more precision. It was as if a lens had brought her more into focus. Instead of needing a powerful emotional response to feel her out, he was constantly aware of her emotional state, and even her more inwardly directed feelings.

He had felt her embarrassment as he walked around nude after bathing. He had felt the frustration of being locked in a small room for weeks. He felt her loathing of the silence, and her relief when taken out for walks. Soon, he thought, he would be able to sense her very thoughts, read her mind like a scroll constantly unfurling, and the thought disquieted him. He, of course, wanted to know what she thought of him, but the niggling voice at the back of his mind continued to suggest that she found him disgusting, though he had not felt it from her.

What was worse for him was being unable to address her concerns, and subsequently realizing that her concerns mattered. She had become more than a piece of the Council's cargo. She was a companion and he worried for her welfare. As he emerged from sleep, she was his first thought, and his initial dependence on her after his duel with Gulchak had turned into a grudging fondness. Even bleary-eyed after sleep, her round, pale face was no longer ugly and repulsive. Her respect and manner had completely changed his view of humans, and he wondered, after he had turned her over to the Council, if he would ever be able to Hunt their kind again.

Today, he knew. Today, he would be taking her off the _Zanna_ and onto the homeworld. She had the dubious honor of being the first of her race there alive, and he felt slightly proud to be part of such a historical event. Escthta had not managed to squash his suspicion of Thtarok, nor had he worked out a reason for the Council to need a human. But it was not his place to ask questions. He was nearing the end of his mission and perhaps the light at the end of the tunnel would reveal all he needed to know.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn waited at the fifth pad for the dropship from the _Zanna_. He straightened his half-cloak over his shoulders, smoothed his tress, checked his rings, but the ship still did not materialize out of the grey sky. He grunted softly, perturbed at having to wait in such a tense frame of mind, but it was his own fault; he had arrived well before the scheduled time. He had nothing else to do, rather, nothing else he could focus his mind on.

The human was here. In all his years as Elder, the arrival of a human on the homeworld meant fear and death. Humans preferred mechanical arms and more than once he had seen their thermal devices level installations. If they ever found the homeworld, there would be no mercy. They would bomb them from orbit, killing thousands. He suppressed the bitter taste of hate in his mouth. He held no love for the humans; he disliked their impersonal methods of death-dealing, lacking in honor and finesse. He had not yet met a human that was worth leaving alive, and though he knew of some that had, he found it the exception rather than the rule.

So it was with great trepidation that he awaited the arrival of the human female and her escort, the very yautja that a few months ago had faced one of the most dangerous creatures they had ever encountered and fought it to a draw. He could think of no other Hunter as capable as Escthta to defend the human from those who would harm her. And yet, he felt supremely disquieted by the choice. He knew Escthta was a dreamer, an idealist, and the presence of a live human, rather than disgust him, might intrigue him.

He heard the distant roar of thrusters, and saw them approach. The small timepiece in the covered area near the landing pad told the fourth hour before midday, right on time. He squinted as the craft landed, boxy and unattractive, on the pad. It looked nothing like the ship it fit into, but it had served them well. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited. The wind created by the ship blew his cloak out of its carefully placed position, but his mind was elsewhere, and he scarcely noticed it.

The landing platform came down and Hir'cyn saw Escthta's tall form appear. At his side was a small humanoid that barely reached his pectorals. It must have been less than six feet tall. They drew near, and he saw the human, pale and hideous, for the first time. It was petite, ugly, with lanky, unbraided hair, and a long, formless dress. He had battled the males for ages, but he, like Escthta, had assumed the females would be more impressive. Instead, they were more diminutive. Hir'cyn felt his tenseness abate somewhat, but it returned when he noticed the human was not restrained in any way.

"I come bearing the greetings of my Leader, Cthinde." Escthta gave the traditional formal greeting. Hir'cyn nodded acknowledgement, but could not stop studying the female human. She stared ahead blankly, and when Hir'cyn stepped into the path of her gaze, she met his eyes. There was fear there, he saw. Fear and confusion. But there was no anger, no hatred, and it puzzled Hir'cyn all the more.

"I accept your greetings. I bring tidings from the Council." Hir'cyn finally moved his eyes to Escthta. Was he imagining things, or had Escthta grown older in the weeks he'd been away? There was a weariness to his eyes that Hir'cyn knew, as he had seen it in his own reflection. Something had changed the young storyteller, aged and strengthened him. "You and your charge are to rest and then meet the Council immediately in the morning." Hir'cyn lifted his eyes to Escthta. "The human is to be kept out of sight. We'll be using an enclosed car to get around."

Escthta rested a hand on the human's shoulder. "Her name is H'chak-di," he said, almost reluctantly. She lifted her head and looked at him, mimicking the name. Hir'cyn could not suppress his surprise.

"You named her?"

"I had to call her something."

"Why not just 'human'?"

"She-" Escthta paused. "We can communicate, to a limited degree."

"Communicate?" Any pretense of diplomacy was dropped as Escthta showed him the motions for bathe and eat, earning a lively response from the female. Hir'cyn gaped openly at her. As Escthta explained to him what the signs meant, Hir'cyn's preconceptions began to wobble. The human was animated when spoken to, and it bared its teeth often.

"She's happy, when she does that," said Escthta, hastily explaining the normally threatening gesture. Hir'cyn nodded, although he hadn't taken offense at all. He tilted his head, looking at this oddity, and then shook it, sighing in disbelief. "I have been charged with your welfare while you are here. Obviously you will be quartered in the Elders' Hall, but have you any other needs?"

"I could use a trip to the baths," Escthta offered. Hir'cyn nodded, with only a passing glance at H'chak-di. The motorized car, covered and shielded, waited nearby. The cabin door hung open, and they climbed in, H'chak-di awkwardly leaning against Escthta as the three of them departed for the baths.

**xXx**

Anise had grown numb to the newness sometime ago. She ached with questions, but the limited dialogue she shared with Talon could not address them. As it was, she was eager to see new places, but she couldn't shake her apprehension about leaving the starship. Something was going on, and she wasn't sure she liked it.

The two Hunters talked in low voices inside the black craft. There was no engine noise that she could discern, nor driver. The windows in the cabin proved one-way; they had mirrored her face when she climbed in, and there would be no way for someone else to see in. She, however, could see out quite clearly.

Spires of metal gleamed faintly in the overcast light. Dawn had come some six hours ago, by her reckoning; the Hunters' day was half again as long as the human one. Most of the buildings were squat, stepped pyramids, although the tiny suggestion of movement told their true size; massive structures almost beyond her grasp. Their sides were smooth, but engraved in places with three-sided glyphs and architectural details. Their car wound its way through the nearly deserted streets almost by feel.

Anise could not get enough of the alien city, and she pressed her face to the glass, craning her neck to see a large domed building receding into the distance. They passed between buildings and it was lost from sight. Next to her, Talon murmured something, and she turned to look at him, yearning to ask him questions. She had not yet named the older one, with the graying locks. He must be a superior of some kind; he wore a cloak, which not even Fang had done. Anise guessed that age brought respect, and wondered anew how someone like her would ever fare amongst them. She watched him for a moment, trying to find a defining characteristic, but she felt the tug of gravity slowing their car before she had come up with one.

They emerged at a great stone building, with friezes of warriors overlooking a large courtyard. It, too, was nearly deserted, but the old one and Talon hurried her over the pavement almost faster than her legs could walk. They swept through the courtyard's sparsely planted grounds and into the building itself. She wrinkled her nose, the smell of minerals and steam warming her lungs. They stopped only for a moment, and then they were off again, through endless corridors, and finally into a room buried in a rarely-used wing.

She found herself face-to-face with a somber-looking Hunter. He was gaunt and pale, so that even his markings were washed out, and he had long, thin fingernails that were sharpened to points. At his side was a small, nervous-looking sort, a Hunter with shifty eyes. Both of them, dressed in the servant's simple loincloth, remained silent even when confronted with a human; compared with the response of the slave a few weeks ago, Anise was gratified to see such stony expressions. She tried to smile, but the nervous one had begun shifting his weight from leg to leg, and she decided that her time would be better spent in the corner, trying to be invisible.

As she turned to make herself scarce, she found that Talon had already stripped down, and was standing with his arms lifted away from his sides. She still couldn't get used to the freedom with which he displayed his body. She hadn't missed the obvious anatomical resemblance to human males, and she also hadn't missed the complete lack of inhibition. She supposed it was normal in his society, but she continued to cover her own body as much as she could.

The small nervous Hunter began to pick at Talon's skin, and as it discarded what it found, she realized he was being deloused, cleaned of vermin. They were invisible to her eyes, but she examined the bowl the gory insects were deposited in. They were small and round, their exoskeletons taut with the blood they had sucked out of Talon. She froze as she realized that she had shared close quarters with him, and she might also be carrying an infestation. Her face became visibly disgusted, and she started to chafe her arms, trying to feel for bugs.

The thinner Hunter with the fingernails like spikes was tugging at the older one's head. Below his nails, hair flowed freely, finer than any human hair she had ever seen. The servant was braiding his hair back, tightening the dreadlocks into the smooth, lacquered tresses she had seen on all the Hunters.

After the braider finished, they exchanged places; the old one was examined for parasites and Talon's hair was braided. She saw it fully down, a sleek curtain of black that went past his knees, but when braided up, ended at the small of his back. The process was painful; more than once she saw him wince as the braider tugged at a bit of hair too firmly.

Finally, they were done, and she saw the nervous one eye her warily. With the expectant eye of Talon on her, she reluctantly disrobed, feeling her body shrink under their gaze. The delouser crept close to her, looking up at her face with a measured gaze; although he was larger than she, his body was doubled down. The braider also advanced toward her, but she held out a hand. "That's okay, I can braid my own hair, thanks." The braider wasn't swayed, and it was only an admonition from Talon that stopped his advance. He half looked insulted, but Talon paid him well for his time, and he disappeared outside the door after pinning her with a scowl.

The delouser, however, was eagerly circling her, and she shrank from his touch as he investigated inflammations and infections. His nails bit into her more than once, digging insects out of her flank and under her arms. Anise whimpered at the bloody bits of flesh the bugs took with them, their last meal, but finally, the delouser was satisfied. Anise took a small amount of comfort in the fact that the number of red-tinted bugs was much fewer than the green-covered ones.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn was staring at the human female. She still didn't have a name as far as he was concerned. Paya, her body was hideous; weak and malformed, with little or no muscle tone. Her breasts were larger than need be, looking bulbous and poorly streamlined in comparison to the breasts of yautja females. Her body was soft and curvy; it barely looked as if it could support its own weight. He shook his head. Human females were nothing compared to their females. He turned to Escthta and was brought up short.

The other yautja was watching the delouser, concern knitting his brow. Hir'cyn chattered inquisitively at him. "You look like someone called off the Hunt," he offered, opening the conversation as a distraction from the female's yelps of pain. Escthta shook his head, breaking his gaze off the human. "My apologies. I have… grown accustomed to her."

In a few short sentences, Escthta related their close living conditions over the past few weeks, which Hir'cyn received gravely. He knew that it would only complicate things when the human had to be handed over to Thtarok. He grunted softly, and he knew that Escthta knew the situation as well as he did. "You shouldn't get attached," Hir'cyn advised, although he knew it was too late.

"I won't," replied Escthta.

The delouser finished, and the three of them moved to a private bath across the hall. The room, including the sunken bath, were lined with a cream-colored marble, shadowed by hidden lamps that warmed the room's color with lamplight. It was typical for the 'breeding baths', as they were called; the privacy afforded those about to mate was sacrosanct and none would violate it if the two chose to complete the act here. It was the perfect place to have a clandestine meeting about the only living human on this planet. Of course, only the discreet staff would ever know a human had been here, and they would not speak.

The bath was some fifteen feet across; nearly ten yautja could soak in it comfortably. It clouded the room with fragrant steam, and Escthta welcomed it; real mineral springs had the stink of the earth about them. H'chak-di had cast him a tentative look, and he felt her apprehension. Although he did not know why she was apprehensive, it was only after he eased into the bath that he turned his mind to it. No matter how he coaxed H'chak-di, she continued to sit near the side, even after he and Hir'cyn had relaxed into a drowsy conversation.

"Things have been three sorts of strange since the Council adjourned," Hir'cyn opened.

"How do you mean?" Escthta's speech had lost some of its formality; they were speaking as two men who were sharing a drink, the kind of conversation that can cross castes.

"The females left, but the Matriarch is still here."

"Matriarch?"

Hir'cyn lifted his head and fixed Escthta with stern eyes. "Yes. The females' Leader. And subsequently ours." The brief explanation that followed floored Escthta, but he could hardly have expected anything less, with the females being the stronger members of their race. Hir'cyn relaxed his head back against the lip of the bath, continuing, "And she's still here."

"Even though she lives with the females on the broodworld."

"Right. So the City's been ass-over-tip for weeks." Formality had fallen completely by the wayside.

"So she's waiting for something. For… her." Escthta turned and looked at H'chak-di, who lifted her head off her knees when his gaze was directed at her.

Hir'cyn nodded. "That's what I had guessed as well. There are larger things than research involved here if the Matriarch has postponed her return to the broodworld."

Escthta stared at H'chak-di for a moment more, and then rolled his head to the side to look at Hir'cyn. "You have a guess."

Hir'cyn was surprised, but did not let his face tell it. "I do. I have recently been in the Library of Pthor'da."

Escthta was vaguely familiar with the Library. When the tribal cities coalesced into one metropolis as the yautja made the jump from the planet, all the records from each tribe, each province, were collected in the Library. It was the sole resting place of all their recorded history. It was all but ignored, and the Librarians were ancient, all Elders that gave up Hunts to preserve the past. The Library's existence threatened to die with them.

"What of the Library?"

Hir'cyn shifted in the water, and began to relate his experience.

**xXx**

The Library was six levels, a strangely square building in the midst of pyramids. On the fifth level, the fourth above ground, Hir'cyn was browsing through the bound copies of tribal records. He had a secret fascination with the human military; they sought violence and death without seeking the honor that came with it. In his search for understanding the motives of his human opponents, he had become an expert on early yautja warfare. It had been warfare, in fact, that was the root of the modern _kehrite_ and all incarnations of structured dueling.

Armies of yautja, when confronting each other for the first time, would send out their commanders to meet each other in battle. The two postured, each proclaiming he was the strongest or most glorious, and then the armies would retreat and prepare for battle. But on one occasion, a commander went too far and struck the opposing general. It degenerated into a fist fight, and eventually the opposing general was victorious. The other army, shamed by its leader's loss, retreated to prepare for battle, but were slaughtered the next day, their morale in shreds. The "commander's trial", the _kehrite_, became the ring in which honor and lives were won and lost.

Hir'cyn had discovered that early yautja had more in common with humans than seemed possible with mere coincidence. Cultural similarities were underlined by biological ones; humans also possessed a four-chambered heart and breathed oxygen, although their atmosphere was more rich in nitrogen than that of the homeworld. Their brains were structured similarly, with the seat of instinctual function small and neglected under the large lobes of the cerebral cortex.

Yautja, evolving in more high-pressure circumstances, could not afford to lose that part of the brain which managed instinctual behavior. The braincase, originally of a uniform size, changed shape to allow the burgeoning hypothalamus and enlarged pituitary gland room. The brain itself changed, growing into the larger skull, and with it came higher brain function. However, yautja young were born earlier and earlier to allow the skull enough clearance through the birth canal. Gestation times had stabilized around 1 year, nearly three whole months less than that of the next youngest ancestor.

It was similar to the race against nature that humans had experienced; it and many more like it had kinked the corners of Hir'cyn's mind. He could not wholly dismiss humans as simply meat. They, like yautja, were Paya's creations. Paya had not done anything without reason- there must be some clue in her writings or their history that would shed light on the strange pink aliens. War accounts were simply a hobby for Hir'cyn, but he found himself spending more and more time poring over archaeological reports, trying to find something that would negate the tenuous link between yautja and humans.

"You spend a great deal of time here, Elder."

Hir'cyn forcibly stopped his muscles from jumping as he turned to face the speaker. One of the Librarians had appeared around the edge of the bookcase, wearing the strange habit of the learned, a plain brown tunic, belted with a wide strip of hide and shrouded in a deep green robe. Noskor had once considered the trade, but Tjat'le's offer of Councilmember had deprived the Library of the one that might have revived it.

"Those who are not familiar with history are doomed to repeat it," Hir'cyn replied.

The Librarian's tusks, rounded with age and use, curved in the faint sign of amusement. "A sentiment I wish more were familiar with."

The Librarian stepped into the narrow space between bookcases, trapping Hir'cyn between himself and the wall. Hir'cyn tensed imperceptibly; the Librarian meant no harm, and would not be able to hold his own against the younger Hunter.

"I have been watching your movements for a long time, Hir'cyn." The name sounded like a hiss, and it grated on Hir'cyn's ears.

"I wasn't aware that Librarians made a habit of spying on their patrons." He could not keep the icy chill out of his voice. The Librarian raised his clawed hand in defense.

"Now, then, you can't pretend that you would simply blend into the crowds, Elder." The Librarian's laugh was a dry rattle. "After all, there are few that come here."

Hir'cyn eased the book he'd been holding back into its place. "That is true enough." He folded his arms across his chest and faced the scholar, looking as menacing as possible. "And?"

The Librarian, sensing at last the other Hunter's discomfort, moved out into the corridor the bookcases made. "Walk with me," he said, and he moved off down the hall.

Hir'cyn followed him, his strides easily matching the measured ones of his host.

"I have seen you looking at old archaeological records, as well as signing out our oldest texts. You are searching for something, Elder, and it does not want to be found." The lowered tones did not echo off the stone walls, and Hir'cyn frowned. "How could you possibly know what I am searching for?"

The Librarian's steps did not falter, but he adjusted his threadbare robe, pulling it closer around himself.

"These books and scrolls are my family, Elder. They serve me when Clan cannot. I know each and every one of them, the secrets they hold, and which combinations will lead to knowledge instead of dead ends." The Librarian stopped as they rounded a corner. The halls were empty, but he still seemed ill at ease. His voice was strained with frustration.

"If you had any need of knowledge, Elder, you should have come to me first. I would have been discreet, but you tried to research in the open air. Paya only knows how many people have learned of your strange leanings."

He lowered his voice to a rushed whisper. "Tell me what you want to know."

Hir'cyn felt his heart speed up, as if he was preparing for a Hunt. He could find what he was looking for. He kept his voice low, as the Librarian had. "Tell me, Learned One. In all my readings, I have seen nothing but links between yautja and human. I know both races are Paya's children, but everything suggests something more."

The Librarian blinked slowly and then sighed, leaning forward. Hir'cyn leaned forward as well, turning his head to hear the old voice better.  
"Humans do indeed have far more to do with us than you or I ever suspected, Hir'cyn." The Librarian looked up as one of the lifts chimed the arrival of an occupant. "The time is soon approaching when only their existence can preserve our own."

Another Librarian moved quietly from the lift to another room further down the hall. When the echo of the firmly shut door had faded, the Librarian continued, "What remains to be seen, and something neither you nor I can control, is how the Council will act when such time arrives."

The old one seemed peculiarly amused by the end of his statement, an odd smile curving his tusks. He shuffled off down the hall without another word, his moss-green robe collecting dust, and leaving Hir'cyn alone on the fifth floor of the Library.

**xXx**

Escthta digested the tale slowly. "So you think the Librarian was trying to tell you something about what the Matriarch is doing?"

Hir'cyn nodded. "The Librarians are the oldest group of yautja in one place. Strange knowledge comes their way. I don't think he would have said anything if she didn't have anything to do with it." Hir'cyn gestured at H'chak-di, and then looked at her.

Escthta followed his gaze and then chattered approvingly. The human had climbed down into the water and the heat was giving her skin a pink glow. The water contained a mild coagulant and it had already stopped the bleeding from the mites. She was reluctant to approach closer, however, preferring to remain on the other side of the bath. Escthta shrugged, glad she was at least using the bath's therapeutic qualities.

Hir'cyn was quietly regarding H'chak-di, and Escthta took advantage of the break in the conversation to think over what he had learned from Yugmnelsh. H'chak-di had a power, but what it was, he had not been able to figure out. Now, he felt as if he was one step closer to solving the mystery of her gift; it had to have something to do with the Matriarch's presence and the Librarian's warning. What great power did H'chak-di have sealed inside her that could turn the yautja world on its ear?

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Sorry this chapter has been so long in the coming, but things have been crazy. Between the semester beginning, and Katrina blowing through (and a tree falling on my car in the process), it's been tough finding time to do anything I consider a hobby. There were also turning points in plot that needed to be ironed out, and I hope they have done so to your satisfaction. Moreover, they have done so to mine. _

_This chapter is one of the things I wish I did not have to do, but it was a necessary evil: a massive dump of information that seems, at first, wholly out of place. I have tried my best to deliver the messages without blowing the story's cover and without it seeming like a roll-call of secrets. The etymology of 'kehrite' is something I came up with, naturally. Brains were also human-derived, for reasons you shall see later.  
_


	11. Divine Mother

_See Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

Anise eyed the two Hunters across the pool. She had eased into the bath while they were deep in conversation. The older one had spoken at length, and she could hear the distress and confusion as the tale, whatever it was, was related. The water was hot, and she felt a tingle across her skin that melted into her bones and soothed her aches. She closed her eyes, feeling peace steal across her mind.

Only six weeks had passed since the rainy day on Craxan Prime when the world fell apart. In one day, her family was gone, her livelihood destroyed, her home overrun by aliens with long, sightless faces and mirror-shard teeth. In a split second, she had thrown her lot in with enormous humanoids, choosing their brutal and warlike society over both the loneliness she would have faced at home, and the reaching claws of the bugs.

Talon, her benefactor, had murdered her brother in cold blood, and she thought back to how desperately she had wanted revenge, how the knife had felt ice cold in her hands when it was poised over his jugular. She half-wished she had done it then, slicing through the strange dappled throat. But she was no killer, and even he was not a homicidal maniac. After all, she was still alive and unharmed. He had protected her from the slave contingent on the spaceship and she felt strongly that his wounds were from a fight over her presence on the ship.

Even though she wanted desperately to hate him, she found that she couldn't. His eyes were fierce and powerful, intelligent. They were unafraid. She had wanted him to beg for his life, but he hadn't. He accepted death as it came, not knowing whether it would be in ten years or ten minutes. It was a kind of fearlessness that she respected and admired, and their mutual care for each other had soothed her into an uneasy trust.

She knew that the absence of harm did not necessarily mean benevolence. But in the absence of harm, why not trust him? Her future was now bound up with his, her fate with his fate, and she intended to see it to its logical end. Whether he killed her or did otherwise, there was no going back now. She had neither the power nor the desire to turn back time. She was where she was because she chose to be there, and second-guessing now wouldn't do her any favors.

It did not, however, mean that she was entirely at ease with this other Hunter. His age was told in his graying locks, and Talon appeared to trust him with her presence, which, she assumed, was unorthodox in and of itself. If Talon was concerned at all with keeping her alive, this person must be someone that could help to those ends, or she wouldn't have been shown around him. The exercise in logic had calmed her enough to climb into the steaming water and settle on a shelf built into the wall.

Talon was watching her when she opened her eyes, and she had long ago given up trying to pronounce much more than the words for 'food' or 'sleep'. They communicated, somehow. He seemed to sense her feelings and moved to help her before she got frustrated. She had come to rely on his uncanny ability to know what she was thinking to get her point across. If she focused on a single thought or image, he would invariably perceive her thoughts and act accordingly. The system worked well for them. She expected that this kind of finely-tuned empathy was rare among his kind, because they still communicated in spoken languages. Perhaps it was just something between Hunters and humans.

Her stomach growled softly, and she made the noise for food, the sound strange to her lips even now. The older Hunter's face registered surprise, but Talon nodded at her, and she felt soothed that food was already in their plans. She wanted to see more of the great city outside the bathhouse, with its metallic spires and gleaming ziggurats. What does one look for on the first visit to an alien culture? Surely there would be a temple to the gods that Talon kept so in tune with. She ached to know, her curiosity growing with each imagined destination.

**xXx**

Escthta looked to Hir'cyn, finding his eyes still on the small pink female in front of them. Hir'cyn, suddenly aware they were being watched, shook his head.

"It is amazing, how we are both similar and strange to each other," he said softly. Escthta looked at H'chak-di, her small face that seemed so plain without tusks. They must express themselves in other ways, he thought, but the lack of an identifiable musk, and the minute movements of mandibles made humans and their emotions seem very mysterious, even deceitful. Hir'cyn lifted a hand out of the water and gestured to H'chak-di.

"She has two arms, like us. Two legs, like us. Two eyes, one mouth, and teeth, all things we have. Are we really so different?" Any other yautja would have been made uncomfortable by the question, but Escthta had a perspective that was not available to any other yautja. He felt her thoughts almost constantly now, and he knew. "No, we are not."

Hir'cyn grunted softly. "I expected you would say something like that."

Escthta tilted his head to the side in an acknowledgment.

Hir'cyn eyed him shrewdly. "You have spent much time with her ever since you captured her, correct?"

Escthta shook his head slowly. "No. She came with me of her own free will."

Hir'cyn's tusks widened in surprise. "Even knowing that she would be a prisoner?"

Escthta looked at H'chak-di and then sighed softly. "I didn't get the chance to explain her position to her. The _kainde amedha_ were on us even as we left Craxan Prime." He quieted and then looked at Hir'cyn again. "I don't consider her a prisoner."

"Because of the time you've spent with her?"

"We could learn much from each other," Escthta answered evasively.

**xXx**

The bath was over almost too soon. Anise felt suddenly cold out of the water, her skin tightening into goose bumps. A cloth nearby was warm and wicked the water off her skin and out of her hair. She swathed herself in the overlarge towel, waiting for Talon and the older Hunter to emerge from the bath. Their kind could sit for hours in steaming water, as she had well learned in the past few weeks.

They emerged, talking in low voices punctuated with clicks and chatters. She had gotten used to their strange speech; she found that it had its own cadence and she had begun to think in the same bursts of staccato. The word for food was mentioned, even as the door slid open. A small, sour-looking Hunter stepped in. He ignored her completely, and she felt relieved. He laid out clothing, two larger tunics for the Hunters, and a smaller shift for herself. She wriggled into it gratefully, still not entirely at ease with nudity, even around those who felt no such restrictions. The sleeves came down to her wrists, and a small tie closed the slit in the collar. The fabric was thin and plain, but unexpectedly warm.

Her hosts reasonably attired, they moved into a room down the hall, where a simple wooden table with benches had been laid out with plain dishes. There was a small crock in the center of the round, and the lid, off-set, had ushered a mouth-watering smell into the room. There was the customary flat bread, surprisingly absorbent, that would be used to mop up any trace of the meal left over. When it came time for her to dip her portion out of the pot, she took less than she thought she might eat. This, too, was for the greater good, as it made sure everyone got fed, and food was not thrown away. The tribal necessities persisted even now. It ensured that nothing was wasted, and Anise wondered at the culture of efficiency that had been so deeply engineered in them.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn paused, spoon in hand, to watch the human eat. She held the dish close to her mouth, shoveling the rich stew through her teeth with the paddle-like spoon. She finished her small amount and carefully rubbed the dish clean with her bread, licking the spoon and her fingers. Hir'cyn shook his head slowly, amazed. She had picked up local traditions easily, learning the importance of bread. They were very similar, he thought, so similar as to be nearly the same.

Of course, yautja had their tusks and their superior strength and intelligence, but even the last of these was coming into question; their kind had only ever rudimentarily examined human intelligence, only to deem them fit for Hunting. Had they created ships capable of faster-than-light travel, or had they, like the yautja, seemed to stumble on the knowledge? Even Elders rarely knew how the ships were made or who made them. It had never been a point of order. He stroked his tusk absently. Perhaps the Librarian would know the answer?

Escthta lifted his head, having at last finished the meal. H'chak-di was waiting expectantly in her shift. He had never been able to fathom how fast she finished eating, but then again, he wondered how she stayed nourished at all, on the food she ate. He felt her both tense and excited. She was eager to get going, now that formalities of bathing and eating had been taken care of.

He looked at Hir'cyn, who was eyeing the small female with a strange mixture of curiosity and impatience. "She wants to get going," Escthta offered. Hir'cyn grunted miserably.

"Food was not meant to be bolted down as one walks from place to place," he grumbled. "I can't say I understand her eagerness."

Escthta trilled inquisitively. "How do you mean?"

Hir'cyn hesitated, looking around the room, and then shook his head. "Even if they've seen her, there's no reason to continue to line their ears with information. We'll discuss it more in my quarters."

**xXx**

The ride was the scenic tour she had hoped for. The robotic car ushered Anise through the heart of the great City, and she nearly cried at its majesty. Architecture on a grand scale has a way of doing that to humans, who feel the love of structure deep into their souls. Her benefactors rested back, their size consuming the rear of the car, while she gawked out of the forward part of the cabin. Anise saw many of the Hunters going about their business on the streets, the smaller everyday buildings plain against the enormous metal-plated ziggurat. Many looked directly at the car, but remained expressionless.

Anise realized with a sobering feeling that if she had been seen, she might have been killed on sight. She looked at the older one, wondering how wide-spread xenophobia was. Would any slave that saw her jibber in disgust? Were all of their classes educated, as the older one appeared to be? Did they refrain from killing her because of someone's orders? Her questions went unanswered by the stoic, toothy faces, and she turned back to the window, content to watch the sunset-lit scenery whiz past.

The car pulled up at a stepped pyramid that was missing its upper third. Grasses and small, rugged scrub grew on the flat parts of the roof, but Anise did not have time to look for flowers before the car turned again, inching along the building's side, to a small and little-used entrance. Talon grabbed her and ushered her through the small door. The older one received her and they moved through darkened corridors and up sloped paths until they were in front of two doors, side-by-side. The one on the right opened, and the old one disappeared inside. Talon waited nervously in the hall, his body nearly wrapped around hers as he tried to shield her from all angles.

The door opened, and a clawed hand pulled them inside. The room was small, mostly red, with two beds that were bolted to the wall. Anise smiled wanly. She would, of course, be left to sleep on the floor. But the old one left, excusing himself quickly, and Anise was left with Talon. She walked over to the bed, sitting on it gingerly. It was firm, but to her, it felt soft and inviting. She looked at Talon and tried to think at him. _Is this for me?_ Her small sandals, made of hide on the ship, barely skimmed the ground when she sat on it. _Is this for me?_

Talon at last nodded, and Anise fell over onto the bed, a small gasp of delight escaping her. She wallowed in the bedding, climbing underneath the plush coverlet and curling up in the overlarge bed. Talon sat on his own bed, and Anise thought she detected some amusement in his face. She ignored him; a bed after six weeks of hard floor was nothing to sneeze at. She burrowed into the plush mattress and was asleep in moments.

There were dreams, and she found them unwelcome. For weeks, since Jake, there had been no dreams. Her mind had caved in on itself, finding repose in blessed blackness when her eyes closed. But now, sleeping in the closest to comfort she'd been in months, her mind relaxed, and the dreams came. There was blood, and she saw, again and again, the red-smeared floor, and Talon standing huge in the room, blocking her attempts at salvation. There was no noise; she could not hear the cannon fire again, or the sizzling thud as it hit. She could not smell the cauterized flesh, nor could she taste her tears.

Anise saw the whole event, in slow motion, and she watched it with a sense of detachment. She knew the woman screaming was her, but she did not scream. She saw Jake's body, the cavern in his waist, and could say nothing. Her heart was filled with pity and sadness, but not the screaming, unreasonable grief she had felt then. She looked at Talon as the scene played out, and with six weeks of watching him, she could tell by his body language that he was unhappy, but resolute. His fists were clenched and he wanted to be anywhere but there, with the blood of a defenseless man on his hands and human screams in his ears.

She knew the dream was over; her body felt the plush of the coverlet and began to stir, though she ached to stay in the dream world and live in those seconds where Jake was whole. Anise opened her eyes in the darkness and sat up. There was no sound from the other side of the room, but she would have paid it no mind anyway. Regret pressed deep and hard into her side; she covered her mouth with her hands and wept quietly, in the darkness of a room on a planet ruled by murderers.

**xXx**

Escthta was asleep, but his rest was uneasy. H'chak-di's dream pressed in on him, her emotions flooding his mind, smothering his own dreams. He saw the invalid in the wheeled chair, his eyes staring into nothing, but Escthta's weak sense of pity had vanished, replaced by the harrowing bone-ache of sorrow. He had never felt it in his lifetime, and the sensation was unpleasant. He woke, pushed awake to escape the dream. As he stared into the night, unblinking, he heard H'chak-di sit up and the small noise as she clapped her hands over her mouth.

Fresh waves of grief and regret consumed him, such that he could not move, pressed down by H'chak-di's emotional pain. It confused and injured him; where had the pain been before? Why had he not felt this from her? Perhaps here, he realized, in an environment so like the one she came from, her mind had forgotten to lock itself away at night. Perhaps here, she was feeling at last the death of her kin, and at last, she was working through her loss.

She collapsed on her bed, her breathing steadying against her pillow into the sleep of exhaustion. Her mind was blank, the forgiving darkness of dreamlessness, and the emotions were gone as suddenly as they had arrived. When he was sure she was asleep, he swung his feet out over the edge of his bed and stepped across the small space that separated them. Escthta bent over her and smoothed her hair, pulling it away from her face. He understood then, as he stroked her head, that he had wronged her by treating her as an animal. Animals had emotions, but Escthta could not feel the emotions of animals. H'chak-di saturated his mind with them, so that he could not separate his original emotions from the ones she pushed on him.

Humans were indeed sentient; without the concept of self, they could not acknowledge the self was lacking. Escthta rubbed his thumb across her brow, the fine hairs so different from his own, and yet— he reached up, running his fingers over his own brow, feeling the hairs resist under his touch. The closer he got to H'chak-di, the less alien her mind became and the more he began to understand her. It was a thought both ominous and heartening that stayed with him until he slept.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn was at their door all too early, but Escthta was ready. He roused H'chak-di, who seemed bleary-eyed and cranky, and the three of them took breakfast on the floor in hasty silence, eating the thin cereal and vegetables that were standard fare. Hir'cyn looked at H'chak-di, even thinking of her by her name, not merely 'the human', and shook his head.

Escthta looked to Hir'cyn for the promised explanation, but Hir'cyn shook his head. There would be time to explain in the car. They wound through the warren again, emerging through the side door. The day was pale, not yet three hours old, and the sky white with clouds. The black ovoid hovered nearby, and Hir'cyn urged them forward into the cabin. He checked around quickly before creeping inside himself. The cabin closed itself off and the car moved off toward the Council.

Hir'cyn sat back, across from H'chak-di and Escthta. He sighed heavily. "The Council will be meeting with us. And the Matriarch will be there as well." Escthta nodded slowly, hardly surprised by the news. He sighed quietly and then looked at H'chak-di, who still peered out of the windows at the passerby. She did not know what waited for her in the Council. He saw the flash of the thoughtpath, raw and visceral in front of his eyes. Escthta swallowed hard, sucking in air to clear his head of the nausea that threatened to take hold.

"What waits for her in the Council?" he asked. Hir'cyn shook his head, and it only strengthened Escthta's resolve. He would not let them turn her into a bloody playground for Thtarok; the things he would do to her would violate his personal ethics, as well as those of any medic, human or yautja.

The Council Hall was smaller than he had expected. He had never been to the building itself, as he had never needed to seek the Council's wisdom outside of the biannual meetings. The door slid open, and he stepped inside, on his guard. The huge skull of a carnivore lay in quiet repose, gleaming in the light. H'chak-di prattled on about something, and he felt vague recognition from her. She repeated an odd word and hovered near the skull, inspecting it. Finally, she moved away from the skull, going quiet. Hir'cyn ushered them forward into the next room, where their guide would take them to the Council's chambers.

The yautja that met them would have been tall, but he walked with a strange, twisting limp, and Escthta could see he had a deformed foot. Revulsion rose in him, an ancient instinct urging him to kill those that could not Hunt. H'chak-di uttered a small gasp, and her surprise and pity broke through into his mind. Escthta looked at her, frowning.

Yautja society prided itself on being free of dead weight; all the members of society were productive. Those born retarded or deformed were killed at birth, a mercy from the midwife, who saved them from a society that would turn on them and rip them apart. All able-bodied yautja possessed an instinctual hatred and revulsion for these miscreants, and if the midwife could not bring herself to sever that life's ties to this world, there were those who could, and feel no remorse.

There were those who were maimed in the path of the Hunt, but few ever lived to be spat on by his former Clan. They died by their own hand, choosing death over life. Indeed, the small thermal detonators each Hunter carried had two purposes; one, to kill the enemy, and two, to spare the yautja the shame of returning as a 'half-made', a misshapen thing that could not die, but could not live. This was the way of things. It kept the species strong and healthy and the populace free of those that could not Hunt or work. These things seemed obvious to him, clear as water. But he continued to feel sympathy in waves from her, though he could not fathom why.

H'chak-di moved out of his shadow, and the slave's reaction was immediate. He howled, the sound weak in his enslaved body, but it startled H'chak-di and she darted back behind Escthta. Hir'cyn thumped the slave roundly on the head. "What the devil has got into you?" The slave yelped and Escthta saw the mark of Blooding on his head. Hatred and anger, bitterness and confusion, they swam off his mind and made Escthta's brain hurt. There was no understanding, but only a mind that had been blunted by years of mistreatment and self-pity. This yautja had been able-bodied, and his foot had been maimed on purpose. Escthta was more horrified at the purposeful crippling of a living creature than he was at the deformity itself.

"Quiet, or you'll earn another." Hir'cyn's voice was sharp, and it cut through the air, silencing the slave's whimpers.

"Rathde, was it?" The slave nodded sullenly.

"Very well." Hir'cyn grunted impatiently. "We are to see the Council, and you are to keep hold of your senses, regardless of my companion." His voice dropped to a more threatening growl and he stood closer, looming over him. "And if you breathe a word of her to anyone, I'll make sure you live a long and full life, healthy and whole." Hir'cyn narrowed his eyes at Rathde and Escthta willed him quietly to agree.

"I won't say anything," Rathde stammered, cowed by the Elder's size and age. "I promise."

"Good."

The rest of the walk down the smooth stone corridors was quiet, but the exchange had made Escthta nervous, and he felt H'chak-di's anxiety increase rapidly. They reached a set of large doors, blackwood and graven with images of the Three. Hir'cyn lifted a hand to rap on the heavy door, but his fist paused in mid-air.

"Rathde."

The slave stammered again. "Yes, Liege?"

"…Nothing."

Rathde stood still, confused, and then loped off down an adjoining hall, leaving the three of them standing alone in front of the heavy wooden doors. Escthta looked at Hir'cyn, who nodded, and then H'chak'di. Her eyes were empty of all but the apprehension that such doors were designed to create, and her skin erupted in a cold sweat despite Escthta's efforts to calm her. Hir'cyn steeled himself, and then lifted his palm, pushing the doors inward.

The seven council members, in low discussion, cut their voices off sharply as the doors swung open. Escthta and Hir'cyn moved forward, and Escthta was careful to keep H'chak-di behind him, out of their line of sight. Tjat'le stepped forward, his fist across his chest. "You have returned, Escthta."

Escthta inclined his head slightly, his eyes darting to Thtarok under the shadow of his brow. "I have, Liege."

"You appear to be empty-handed." Tjat'le's tusks curved in a smile. "Or are you?"

Escthta tilted his head in acknowledgement of the verbal spar. "I have done as was asked of me, Liege. I have brought a human, female, the only one of her kind to ever set eyes on the greatness of our City, and the only one I have ever found worthy of mercy." He felt anxiety in the room, smelled the musk of fear, annoyance, rage. At the edges of his mind, he felt a fervent trembling, which he knew must come from Thtarok. Escthta, aware that his use of the theatrical pause had reached its limit, moved to the side. H'chak-di's fear erupted into panic, but he smoothed his hand around her shoulders and onto her back, holding her steady. Her panic receded only slightly.

"Her name is H'chak-di."

The seven members regarded her silently, never letting their faces falter or their emotions show, but Escthta could sense some of their feelings regardless. Ren'da and Ghanede were closed-minded; there was nothing to be gleaned from them, and their stare was expressionless. Noskor was equally cold, although Escthta could feel his evaluation and judgment. Contempt poured from Kvar'ye; he was insulted at having a human treated so gently and reverently in his presence. Tjat'le was, strangely enough, curious and confused, although Escthta could not sense why. Bruyaun exuded utter revulsion, some of his nausea creeping into his expression.

And finally Thtarok. Escthta turned his eyes on him lastly, and he met the iron-hard resolve of one whose lusts dictated his actions and his life. He knew more about Thtarok in that moment than he had dared to guess before; the images of the thoughtpath were only the beginning of Thtarok's morbid curiosity. His mind was filled with vitriol, but Escthta did not waver, meeting the scientist's steely gaze with a sharp look that cut through his façade. _If you hurt her,_ he thought at Thtarok, I will make you regret it, over and over, until there is no more of you to cut. Thtarok's sudden intake of breath announced that he had received the message clearly.

The other Council members turned to Thtarok, their bodies still shoulder-to-shoulder, hiding the room behind them. "Something wrong, Thtarok?" Tjat'le asked.

Thtarok shook his head slowly. "I expected the females to be larger," he answered shrewdly. "It just proves that we have much to learn about humans," he finished.

"And from them," Ren'da offered. Escthta felt a begrudging acceptance from him, and nodded imperceptibly in his direction.

Thtarok smirked. "But of course."

**xXx**

She didn't like this. Not at all. They were all looking at her, and they were all so… intent. Their stares made her uncomfortable, and she began to feel panic take hold. One part of herself tried to calm down, to look at this rationally, but the alien speech, with voices so different from Talon's, wormed into her mind and she lost it. _Why should I calm down? They're talking about me! Me, who might be their next trophy, or experiment or God knows what! Why, why did I choose this? Why didn't I stay where I belonged?_

"Let me see her."

Anise groaned softly. The madness had taken hold of her mind, and she was hearing voices. They didn't seem like the kinds of voices she should be hearing if she was crazy; the voice had been a rich, serene alto that thrummed in her bones. _But it was mine! My language, not theirs! Who here could speak with me in my own tongue?_

As if to answer, the huge Hunters in front of her parted, their hulking shoulders revealing a large, white triangular table, lit with shafts of golden light from an unseen source high above. At the table's furthest point, an enormous figure reclined in a chair. It rose, and Anise saw that it was almost twice as tall as she, ten and a half feet. It, or rather, she, as Anise took the figure's appearance in, wore a diaphanous gown, long and sheer, and slit in the sides. Her dappled hide, a beautiful brown with black spots, peeked out from either side, and her chest and belly were a demure cream, taut and lean under the shimmering cloth. A wide, ornate metal collar wreathed her neck, and it was to this that the lengths of sheer fabric were sewn.

Her head was just as larger, if not larger than her male counterparts'. Her hair was not dreadlocked, but bound instead into an intricate system of loops and knots, her crown covered with a jeweled carapace of precious stones and metals. Her tusks, large and gleaming ivory, bore golden cuffs with dangling bells. Her eyes were dark brown, lucid and intelligent under her heavy brow. Even in her strangeness, Anise thought her beautiful.

"You are not afraid."

Anise swallowed hard. "No, Lady," she answered, for the female Hunter, who was so dressed in such finery, could only be a Lady.

"But you were, a moment ago."

"Yes, Lady."

"Why are you unafraid now?"

"I don't know," Anise faltered. She felt relieved at the presence of another woman, however alien, but moreover, this Lady, her eyes wise and endless, made her feel comfortable and filled her with peace. The Lady was quiet, but seemed satisfied. She turned and spoke again to Talon, using the alien speech, but Anise could now understand every word.

"You are her protector?"

Talon knelt next to Anise. "I am." His voice was thick with emotion, but Anise liked the sound his human words had in her mind.

The Lady's last word was strange, and Anise could not hear it clearly. They were spoken as if through padding, indiscernible to all but those it was meant for, but the gap clearly indicated something was said. Talon's head snapped up in surprise, but he breathed, "Yes."

"Then you know who I am."

"Yes." He bowed his head, and Anise saw his shoulders tremble ever so slightly. His head lifted again, his eyes wet and he was choked with understanding.

"Paya, our Holy Mother," his words caught for a second, "and Creator."

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _At last, a major plot point! I have waited to write this scene for months, since this (dare I say opus?) was begun. The Matriarch is, to jump ahead of your questions, a corporeal being, and Paya's avatar. All those present can see and understand her. _

_To the Reader, regarding Anise's easily-won trust: I hope I have addressed that to your satisfaction in this chapter. I don't feel that Anise's trust or lack thereof was adequately explored before, but I did not want this to become a piece that lingers overlong on angst, since that is not Anise's driving force. If I explored it fully, the fic would still be exploring it, and it threatened the focus of the piece. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make to move the story forward. I hope you can forgive the shoddy craft and that you will continue reading in spite of it. _


	12. People Seized With Life

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_Note that for the purposes of variety, I use 'Paya' and 'Matriarch' interchangeably when she is speaking. However, when Paya Herself is actually present, all her respective pronouns will be capitalized, i.e., She, Her instead of she, her. See additional Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

Escthta had no words. As She approached and spoke, he felt his bones vibrate with Her nearness; when he tried to look at her, his eyes seemed to see only light. She towered over him, and he felt unworthy and small in her presence. H'chak-di responded to an unasked question in her strange speech, and he nodded to himself. Of course she would be interested. It was the Matriarch's will that H'chak-di be brought here. But this was no Matriarch; Paya rode her now, and she had no thoughts, no mind but Paya's.

Paya addressed him and he was struck dumb; the force of Her thoughts, Her will put him down to his knees, and he saw the truth She asked of him. He uttered it in the simplest of phrases, unable to put words together in any kind of coherent pattern. He heard Her again, and the shock of Her glory made his eyes water, and he answered again, in the words that were the shortest expression of truth.

"Then you know who I am," She said, in a voice that made his soul, his mind as transparent as glass. In this moment, with the blinders loosed from his eyes, he saw only the barest hint of Paya's brilliance, and it nearly destroyed his mind. He choked, his eyes watering, and answered, "Paya, our Holy Mother and Creator."

Almost instantly, the brilliance faded, leaving the Matriarch in what was, to Escthta, abject darkness. She seemed satisfied, and leaned back, regarding them with her inscrutable eyes. The silence hung over them like a shroud, until a small voice broke it gently.

"Paya?"

He lifted his head, coming out of his mental shock, and looked for the source. It was H'chak-di, who gazed on Paya's avatar with open, unblinking eyes. He had the unyielding temptation to pull her down to her knees, but he found the urge suppressed even as he moved his hand. It twitched and then came to rest near his thigh. He looked at the Matriarch again, and her gaze was knowing: _You need not force her hand, Protector. _

Escthta began to protest, but a lifted forefinger silenced him- no, it removed all his urges to speak.

"She is right to wonder, Protector. After all, she has traveled a long distance. She should know with whom she speaks."

Behind him, Escthta heard the restless shifting of Thtarok and the rest of the Council. He opened his mind again, which still stung from Paya's power, and felt their emotions, a mixture of fear and awe. He then turned, looking up at H'chak-di.

"And who _are_ you?" H'chak-di's words startled him, and he made a small snort of surprise, jerking back and looking at the human again. He could understand her! The words, so strange and alien, were suddenly clear. Before he could respond, the Matriarch answered.

"I am the Matriarch. Paya, the Allmother, speaks to her people through me. I am the earthly vessel for her power." She said all this matter-of-factly, and Escthta felt locked in a surreal experience that he could not escape from.

"So, Paya is a goddess?"

"Yes."

"And she 'speaks' through you?"

"Yes." The Matriarch was smiling gently. "You don't believe me."

H'chak-di's face bloomed in surprise. "It's not that."

"You haven't believed in God since your father died." The accusation, though quiet, reverberated through the room, and Escthta winced for H'chak-di, already feeling the sting of the Matriarch's barb.

"I haven't believed in _my_ God. You're not my God." H'chak-di's words were equally penetrating, and Escthta looked at the Matriarch, his mind beginning to panic. He moved toward H'chak-di, alien tongue or no, and tried to use his mind to silence her.

"Leave her be, Protector." Paya's voice was cold. "She has a point." Paya turned away, moving toward a door at the end of the room opposite the one they had entered. "Come with me. You as well," she added, pointing to Hir'cyn.

**xXx**

Paya's chambers were dark, with gilt-embroidered curtains hung from a center skylight and pulled to the walls, so it gave the effect of a huge pavilion, the color of which was not easily discerned. Here the lengths of fabric appeared blue, there red, and in other places orange or purple. The great open space they created had one cushioned dais with several pillowed areas for seating around it. The enormous Hunter settled herself on the dais in a reclining position, gesturing to the cloth rolls and floor cushions around her. Anise settled on one and found it was quite comfortable, though it smelled of old incense and disuse.

Talon seated himself next to her, folding his legs together, and resting his palms on his knees. His back was ramrod-stiff, and Anise caught his snatched glances at her. Clearly, he knew something she did not. The other Hunter, the old one that had accompanied them for the past day, also seated himself, but he eased one elbow onto a roll pillow and kept a half-lidded watch over the proceedings.

Paya lifted one hand and a door closed somewhere nearby as a slave went to fetch something. Her ornately woven headdress glittered in the light from the morning sky overhead, though the sun had not yet reached its peak. Her mandibles tapped against each other, clacking and jingling at the same time. "You have given her a yautja name?"

The question was directed at Talon, and Anise knew that the strange word was their people. She heard his voice, his words, and understood them. "Yes. H'chak-di." Anise recognized the collection of syllables. It _was_ his name for her, as he called her for so many weeks. She looked at Paya to see how the name resonated with her.

Paya's features eased somewhat. "You have a knack for irony, Protector." She turned to Anise and her tusks moved in what Anise recognized as amusement. "Your name, do you know what it means?"

"No."

"It means, 'woman of mercy.'" Paya's smile widened into a genuine grin. "Your Protector has little idea of the many meanings your name will take on—"

"What is his name?" Anise interrupted.

Paya's smile dimmed, but she motioned with one hand at Talon. "What have you been calling him?"

"Talon. It was… the best I could think of."

Paya nodded slowly and she made a graceful wave of one large hand. "Names tell us much about people and ourselves. It is a decent enough name for him."

"But what is his real name?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself? You can, now."

Anise turned to Talon, suddenly timid. "What _is_ your real name? I've been calling you by something not yours, and I don't think….it's right…" Her voice trailed off under Talon's intense gaze.

"Escthta." His answer was a deep rumble with a hissing noise laid over it. It was a sound she could not be sure she would be able to replicate, but she tried it and had moderate success. "What does it mean?"

"In our language, it means 'mind-born'." He tilted his head to the side in curiosity. "I have been calling you something untrue as well. Your name, Anise. What does it mean?"

Anise smiled softly. "It is a small, white flower."

Talon—no, Escthta—nodded slowly. "It is appropriate, then."

**xXx**

"Now that the introductions are all finished, perhaps we can move on," Paya interrupted. Escthta jerked his head up, aware again of the Matriarch's presence. A slave had entered the room, carrying a tray with a steaming metal carafe and four small drinking bowls. He poured out a small amount of hot black liquid into each of the earthenware bowls, offering them to Paya first and then to the guests. When all had taken their drink, he excused himself, leaving the carafe.

H'chak-di sniffed hers cautiously, and Escthta did as well, although he knew what it was. No mere liquor, it was _c'ntha_, an elixir made of steeped leaves and an alcohol. It was a spicy mixture, but the warmth filled the gut with comfort. Some drinkers brewed a mild hallucinogenic variety, but he smelled none of the telltale bite the hallucinogenic herbs imparted. It was an interesting choice for Paya, but it meant that she herself was intent on being comfortable.

A polite chattering from the dais signaled that Paya was ready to speak. "H'chak-di," Paya began, "you have been brought here under false pretenses."

Escthta was stunned silent. He was ordered to obtain a human female by Thtarok, who would have come by his orders from the Council and Paya. If this set of suppositions was incorrect, what did they really want with her?

"Three months ago, in the peak of the summer's heat, the Council was held." Paya rolled her wrist, swirling the _c'ntha_ and throwing the spicy smell up into the air. She seemed to be carefully considering her next words.

"Just before the Council's biannual meeting, I was in seclusion to receive Paya's blessing. Paya came upon me, and there were things revealed to me." She took in a lungful of air, holding it and releasing it slowly as she pondered how to relate her experience. "To put it bluntly, Paya has been testing us, and we have been failing her trials."

A sip of the _c'ntha_. "Paya does not punish us directly. She is a Mother, and part of mothering is allowing your young to make mistakes and learn from them. We have not been learning from the opportunities she has granted us, and we are suffering."

She contemplated the cup and then spoke again. "We must make amends, and set ourselves back on the correct path. Correction will take many years, but as we are a long-lived people, this will not hinder our efforts."

The Matriarch looked at them, at H'chak-di's confusion and Escthta's shock, and Hir'cyn's shuttered expression. "Elder Hir'cyn, you have been doing a lot of research for an Elder." Hir'cyn's expression did not slip, but Escthta felt a small blip of surprise. Hir'cyn had doubtless felt that he was being discreet, but obviously this was not the case. Paya did not wait for a reply, but instead looked at Escthta.

"You both discussed humans the other evening in the baths. How they are different, how they are the same." The Matriarch turned her head to H'chak-di, watching her.

"And we are the same," she continued," to the point of each of us being valuable to the other." Her cryptic words set off a warning in Escthta's brain. Something wasn't right here. He looked at H'chak-di and reached out to her with his mind, only to find a colorful bit of chaos where her normally enclosed mind would be. "Even controlled substances affect us in the same way." H'chak-di smiled a little, a blank smile for a human in the grip of a powerful hallucination that stole their mind.

"You see, Escthta, our biology is so similar that it might be said that one progressed from the other." She was talking evolution, the change of life over time. It had been proven centuries ago by scientists, but such results rarely had an effect on the average yautja.

"But it is not just biology that defines us," the Matriarch continued, bowing her head in acknowledgment of the fact. "No, it is more than that," she murmured, almost to herself. The Matriarch paused, as if debating a piece of information to divulge, and then decided against it. She looked at Hir'cyn, his expression still closely marshaled.

"Indeed, you have suspected it for months, have you not, Elder? That humans and yautja are linked? That we share some of the same traits?" She leaned over the arm of her reclining cushion and her eyes were sharp as she looked at him, baiting him with secrecy.

"Even," she paused for dramatic effect, "the same genetic material?"

**xXx**

Anise felt her muscles go limp. The drink, it was some sort of liquor; her insides felt like spilling themselves on her lap, but she managed to hold it down. She simply focused on breathing until the feeling passed. Breathing soon became easier, and with it, the world attained a warm glowing fuzziness, like viewing childhood memories through gauze. It was pleasant enough, and she smiled a little at the relief. So what if she was here with these aliens and they were talking about her? So what?

She turned her head to look at her companion, finding that it took a great deal of effort. Her body itself seemed disinterested in moving, and it was only wi that she looked around the room. Her vision seemed to have trouble following her head, so that she overcompensated. The room's curtains cast ghosts in her vision, and she finally just closed her eyes, unwilling to process all the sensory input.

Her mind produced for her lucid dreams; scenes that played on the backs of her eyelids even while she smelled the drink and the incense from the Matriarch's chamber. She saw her mother, sitting in a meadow and making chains of flowers. The French sun shone bright and then her father was there, telling her about plants and how she was named for a flower. There was a smell, that grassy scent, and then the anise near her nose, spicy and green. She reached up to take it from her father, as his large frame blocked out the sunlight for a moment.

"Pierre!" Her mother's voice rang clear, calling him to the house. Jake ran after him, walking in stride. The two men, tall and strong, moved with purpose through the dappled grasses. Anise sat up, looking at the house. There was a man in a uniform there, and then Papa turning him away. There was yelling, and then the wind scattered their words.

**xXx**

"I have your attention now, do I?" A slave was cleaning up Hir'cyn's drink, dropped as he got to his feet in surprise and outrage. She also eased up from her reclining position, cradling the _c'ntha_ in her lap.

"We know that the universe continually moves toward disorder, but what of life?" She looked at Escthta and Anise again.

"Life creates order out of chaos, prefers systems to randomness. For all science's talk of probabilities and changes in entropy, we depend on not-probability, on structure, to survive, even to exist." She spoke now not as avatar, but as a scholar. Of course, Escthta realized, the Matriarch would have ample access to all the records in the Library, and more. Of course she would be educated. That, he thought, made her even more dangerous.

"Life prefers elegant structures; acid helixes and rings of carbon, symmetrical and electrically neutral. We are made of the same compounds, humans and yautja both. Even though they evolved on a completely different world, humans are much like us. They have two eyes, two ears, two hands, and two feet, just like us. They were born into a world of adversity, like us. They had to out-compete other species, just like us. They have large brains, like us, warm blood, light-based vision, hair. They have skin, not scales," she added, as if it had slipped her mind until now.

"And still, there is one respect with which humans differ from their ancestors and from yautja." She had begun to walk her dais, circling the back of the couch. "Humans reproduce differently." The Matriarch uttered each word, every syllable, clearly enunciating so that no mistake could be made about her words.

Escthta found his voice. "You would not have brought her here just to talk about differences and similarities." He felt a chill curling around his ribcage, the cold grasp of incredulous fear.

The Matriarch finished her _c'ntha_ and handed the bowl off to a slave. "Indeed, Escthta, I did not ask for her assistance in outlining differences and similarities."

"What is she here for, then?" Hir'cyn's voice was curt, almost to the point of being rude.

"Now we arrive at the other part of the story." The Matriarch smiled wanly and then sat again.

"Males do not know this, because it has not been historically necessary for them to know, but…" She clasped her hands and rested her elbows on her knees, leaning forward.

"There is a... situation on the broodworld. Fewer females are coming into season every Council, as I'm sure you've noticed." Escthta paused and then realized that he had noticed the numbers of available females dwindling. Not by enough to notice from year to year, but he distinctly remembered more females when he was first Blooded than he could recall in the most recent years. The Matriarch's eyes were steady, looking into Escthta's, though she kept her mind shut tight to him.

"Even with fewer females coming into heat, more pregnancies are being aborted spontaneously." The words held little meaning for the males, but Escthta felt H'chak-di's mind move away from its effervescence and back into reality.

"They are usually stillborn or deformed, so it is… good that they are not going to term." Her voice deepened with sorrow, and Escthta realized that she felt the loss of the sucklings as keenly as she would were they her own offspring.

"But even the healthy are falling from the womb. Once the female no longer carries a child, she should come back into estrus." The Matriarch shook her head. "But they are not, not until the next Council. And even then, some remain frigid."

Paya crisped her hands together and then straightened. "Many sucklings are, of course, carried to term, and are born healthy, strong children. But they're mostly males. Fewer than 1 in 25 successful deliveries is a female." She looked at the two males and then at H'chak-di before continuing. "The breeding population is not being replaced." Her words were strained; these were her people, her children that she talked about as scientific quantifications.

Escthta realized that was probably the only way she could handle speaking about it, was to distance herself from the awful truth with jargon. He saw a flash of her thoughtpath, or she allowed him a glimpse. It was strewn with the bodies of dead children, babies, fetuses, birthing mothers, knee-deep in sorrow and regret. He met her eyes, feeling again the sorrow of another over her loss, and he began to wonder if sorrow was a female complaint.

The Matriarch chuckled softly. She read his musings with her practiced mind. "It is not a solely female complaint, Escthta. Females simply have much more to lose."

Hir'cyn spoke up, breaking the long pause that followed. "Where does the human enter into all of this?"

The Matriarch nodded, looking at the recovering human seated on the cushions in front of her. "Humans do not have season. They never come into heat, they never move into estrus. Humans are always ready to breed. They keep their losses low and their number high. When a yautja female loses a child, she must wait for the next council to breed. A human female can breed again within six weeks, without weaning the first child."

The Matriarch stepped off the dais, seating herself on the same level as Anise, but still towering over her. The headdress only made her appear taller, and her being so close unnerved Escthta, but H'chak-di met her head on, her eyes strangely clear.

"With H'chak-di's permission, we will study the continuous ovulation of humans. Human reproductive tactics will be explored. Brain and body chemistry will be sampled and similar compounds will be synthesized for use in our females."

Paya turned her head to look at Hir'cyn. "The yautja will become continuous ovulators as well. Our worlds, our society will change. We will integrate and advance ourselves even further."

Hir'cyn snorted in disbelief. "That goes against everything we know in science. You can't affect individuals with chemical changes and expect them to get passed on to offspring. That's ludicrous."

Paya got to her feet and regarded Hir'cyn with a measure of wisdom and sadness, her long arms resting at her sides. "Our race has outlived many civilizations we have discovered, outlived species we have Hunted. But we have no future if we do nothing. We are reaching the end of our era. We are dying, Elder."

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _This is a short chapter, but there is enough information here to make up for it. It is one of the dreaded information bombs, and I think I have done a better job of presenting it. This also reveals the major driving force of the yautja Matriarch, which I have been playing close to my chest. _

_The title of this chapter is taken from a track on the Chrono Cross Original Soundtrack; People Seized with Life is the song played when the Great Plot Machinery of the Game becomes visible and I found it a very fitting melody for the Matriarch's confessions. If you would like to hear the song, email me and I will send you a link to it on my website._


	13. Blood Done Sign My Name

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _See additional Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

Escthta stared at the Matriarch, the gravity of her words like a weight in his stomach. This was what Yugmnelsh had meant. _There is a balance to these things. And it is tipping_. He turned to look at H'chak-di, stunned by the revelations. We are dying, and she is the only one who can save us? Surely it could not be so, but Paya herself said that the race was at an end, that humans held the key to breeding without estrus, that they shared… the _same genetic material_? He turned to look at H'chak-di only to find her face blank, her mind shuttered.

"Why should I help you?" Her voice seemed far away. Escthta had not dared hope for an immediate acceptance, but this reply seemed more negative than he had wanted to believe. Didn't she realize the difficulty he had undergone bringing her here? He had taken on considerable personal risk, been challenged to defend his honor or die, not to speak of the risk Hir'cyn and Cthinde had taken on by supporting this endeavor. Many yautja would not understand the presence of a human on the homeworld. Even the Council, selected from the most learned and experienced of their race, had been uneasy at best with her diminutive presence.

The Matriarch spread her hands wide. "I cannot offer you a reason why you should." Escthta's mouth fell open. What was the Matriarch playing at? Why the hell would she ask for such help from H'chak-di and not give her reasons why?

"Then my answer is no."

Escthta stood suddenly, his wrath and confusion taking control before he had time to collect his thoughts. "Why?" He looked at the Matriarch. Why ask her if you know you cannot offer a reason? The Matriarch closed her eyes and dipped her head slightly. _It is Paya's will._

He snarled in frustration, and then turned on H'chak-di. He glared at her harshly, hoping to cow her into consent, but she stubbornly stared back at him. Escthta saw only fear, anger, resentment and the lingering effects of the liquor in her eyes. He knew that they could force her, that she would be no match for their superior strength. The thought of her in the stocks, the cuff and collar chafing her skin until it bled drained his anger. Only criminals deserved such treatment, and she had done nothing wrong.

**xXx**

Anise watched the huge Hunter growl. His face had turned from pensive to angry in moments, and the rapid change scared her, but not enough to give in.

"Explain to me why I should offer my body, my life to those who hunt us like animals? Even if you don't-"she added, noting the hurt look on his face, "-others of your kind do. What about that group back there?" She cast a hand at the door leading to the Council chambers. "Even I can tell when something isn't right."

She stood unsteadily, her legs weak from the long time spent curled up and the _cn'tha_. "I'm not safe here, not from anyone." Her eyes landed on Escthta at this last word, and she half-wanted to exclude him from this last group, but still couldn't completely trust him. _Those are human skulls on his walls, Anise! He killed Jake! Don't let him lull you into a false sense of security!_ But being in a constant stage of vigilance for nearly six weeks was beginning to take its toll.

"Nothing has happened to me since I left Craxan Prime, but I am not sure I trust anyone here. I am likely to be stabbed as I sleep, or poisoned by your scientists. Why should I put my only life at stake to save a race of murderers? Why should I care?" _Aside from the fact that you have my life in your hands,_ she added to herself.

"We are not murderers, H'chak-di. The Hunt is a sacred trust between the yautja and Paya."

"Those are human skulls on your trophy wall." Her voice held an accusatory tone.

"They are." He inclined his head to her, closing his eyes briefly. "Every one of them died honorably and deserves their place of honor on my wall." Escthta spoke with conviction, remembering each of the three nameless humans whose skulls were hung on his wall, remembering their uplifted faces, eyes wide with surprise, their last breaths burbling out with their blood.

"And what about those that you killed dishonorably?" H'chak-di's mindset turned cold and poisonous. Escthta frowned, sensing that she was baiting him into a trap.

"I have never killed anyone dishonorably, H'chak-di."

She gave no answer. Her mind opened to him suddenly and he heard again her screams, the dull thud of the invalid's chest cavity opening to the air, and raw pain splintered like glass into his mind. He reeled with the vitriol, the sorrow, and for the first time in his more than three hundred years, he was moved to tears. Not only because he felt her sorrow as if it was his own, not only because he now felt her loss as sharply as she did, but because she did not know that the man prayed for death; that with his dying thoughts, had bid Escthta to take her and keep her safe from the Hard Meat.

"I do not expect you to understand the circumstances, H'chak-di. I saved him from a dishonorable death." His voice was earnest.

Anise heard his words, and could only think of how hard they had worked to keep the Craxan flu at bay, how much she had done to keep Jake's organs alive, how Scott had succumbed at last and she wasn't going to let death take her brother without a fight and she had begun crying without realizing it. Escthta was claiming to have saved him. Rage and grief swelled anew in her, threatening to overflow and drown her reason.

"You saved him? After all I went through keeping him alive? After all the money we spent looking for new treatments? All the time we spent in poverty so that he could be treated, all the effort that went into caring for him and _you_ saved him?" And though the question came out in an incredulous tone, she found that she could only supply half of the rage that the thought deserved.

She had wondered, since Jake had been unable to hold meaningful conversations, whether he would prefer death. She wondered if she had been stealing his dignity, letting him rot in a wheelchair with bits of plastic hanging out of his stomach. He had been vital once, running and laughing, and then he was as a dead thing, pale and shrunken in his room. Many times she had almost asked him if he wanted to be let go. At the last moment, she would stop, restrained by the unspoken taboo against human euthanasia, no matter how desperate the situation. Had his death been a sorrow? Or a relief? Anise wept bitterly, because after all she had done, she could not save his life and it had taken an alien with a split face and human skulls on his wall to restore her brother's honor.

Escthta's hands fell from their entreating gesture, and he watched her face distort with pain. He felt her second-guessing, her realizations, blunted as they were by the veil of tears. Her sobs were gruesome and silent, and she sat down, shuddering as she drew breath. The Matriarch looked on quietly, tall and statuesque, her shining headdress glinting as the skylight let in the strengthening sun.

"If I help you, I'll be signing humanity's death warrant." H'chak-di's voice was small and strained, barely audible. She looked up at Escthta, seeming smaller still against his height. She shook her head slowly, "I can't. Humans are petty, jealous creatures with evil intent. We're overrun with greed, corruption, and we often kill each other for no reason at all. But there are good things too. There are good things too…" She murmured the last words, trying to think of anything that would justify them, imagining them in a different mouth.

A different mouth opened to speak. "We often kill each other for no reason at all. But there are good things too," said Hir'cyn quietly. "There are good things too."

Anise closed her eyes, blinking away the glittering tears that clung to her lashes. She looked at Escthta, thinking of the brother he killed, but unable to scrub away the woman he saved. The life he ended and the lives that might go on. Sinner and savior, executioner and pardoner, until her head became heavy, and she leaned forward to put her chin in her hands, her thoughts turned inward.

Escthta watched her, cautiously monitoring her inner battle for signs of acquiescence. "Anise," he began slowly, carefully choosing his words, "What can I do to make my people worth your sacrifice?"

Anise was brought up short by his calm request; her thoughts of Jake's death had segued into a montage of memories, comparing her life now to her life with Jake and before that, Scott. A small smile crept across her face as she remembered her farm in the French countryside. Those days were gone. Even the days in the razorgrass on Craxan Prime were gone. There was no turning back from the future, no matter how strange or foreign. Her father's voice murmured a proverb in the back of her mind, and she nodded to herself. _What is done is done._ There is no changing what has already happened, who has already died, who has not. She looked up at the Hunters, their faces like strange gashes in their heads, and yet, she knew their mannerisms so well, she could see Escthta's apprehension, the hesitation in his body.

Before thinking, she mumbled, "Stop hunting humans, at least while I am here. And guarantee my safety." She ran a hand through her short hair, pulling it out of her face before lifting her eyes to meet Escthta's.

"Is that all?" His words suggested finality, and she seized on the offer in his question. "Remove our home system from your star charts and never go there again." It was what she could do to protect humanity from their Hunts in the long term. At least she told herself that. In truth, she acknowledged blackly, it was a small request to assuage her guilt at selling out her species.

"And for yourself?" The older female Hunter leveled a speculative gaze on the smaller human, and

H'chak-di shrugged uneasily. "Put me on the planet of my choice when this is over."

Escthta hid his disappointment, though he had known it would be this way from the beginning. Their cultures were different, radically so, and hers was little more than prey for his. For the first time, her leaving had been spoken of. For the first time, she had an end to match her beginning.

**xXx**

Paya bore twin sons. The firstborn, Cetanu, emerged from his mother's holy womb fully formed, and took up the spear and blade to Hunt, leaving his mother alone. Paya continued to labor, and after two days and two nights, her second son was born. His name was Selachi, and he too came forth fully formed, but no sooner had his foot touched earth than he turned and began to tend to his mother's bleeding body. Paya slept for three days and Selachi watched over the universe, undoing Cetanu's chaos and setting the cosmos in order.

As Cetanu smashed stars together, the novae frightened the yautja, but Selachi drew them near and showed them how the exploding stars silhouetted Cetanu's form, and like revealing the workings of a magician, the veil of fear was stripped away, and they stood tall and unafraid. Selachi taught them how to build shelters against Cetanu's storms, how to make fire to warm themselves, and how to weave clothes that protected them from the elements. Their hair caught in thorny brambles and Selachi taught them how to braid it into the fearsome dreadlocks the gods wore. Their females were beyond control, and Selachi taught them the overtures they needed to breed. He taught them thousands of things in the darkness while Paya slept on, oblivious.

**xXx**

"Done." The Matriarch's pronouncement spread like a shockwave, echoing in the heavily draped room, vibrating through tissues and muscles, and it seemed to Escthta that every part of him was shaken, down to each atom of his being.

He felt Her return, the Goddess' holy presence filling the Matriarch and brightening her body as sunlight brightens the bottom of a crevasse at noon. Her body became supernatural, wreathed with light, and he felt his heart strain in his chest, flopping wildly without rhythm or reason.

She looked at him, and Her gaze stripped him of his mental mask, laying bare all his flaws for Her to see. She saw his fears, like great silvery moths shivering on trees, dreams like coppery butterflies tucked between leaves, and his growing talent for Speech, an ever-present gale that threatened to rip those delicate wings apart. She closed her eyes and Escthta sagged, breathing as if he had run for his life, feeling his heart wobbling in his chest.

The Matriarch stepped off her dais, walking toward him, and she glittered as her head carapace and collar caught the strengthening sun. Paya's presence remained rooted in her form, and Escthta caught his breath as the goddess drew near. She reached out and cupped his face in Her hands, Her touch lighting all his nerves on fire. With one thumb on each hand, She marked a circle around his tusks, scoring the ivory with Her nail. She slid one thumb and then the other into the folds of Her own mouth, and silvery strands of saliva dripped from each finger as She rubbed them into Escthta's newly carven tusks. The glistening fluid flowed into the crevice, filling and hardening into silver rings around each tusk.

Her eyes sought his and time stopped abruptly. Escthta's surroundings faded from his peripheral vision, blurring together the tapestries together until only her face was left. He breathed in and then felt her in his mind_. I have given you a great Gift, Protector, given only once before in my lifetime. _Hasuan-del Thuin_, the Gift of Tongues, will make her speech flow from your mouth as freely as if you had been born speaking it._ Her voice, warm and quiet, seemed only for him. Time began again and the effects of the cessation receded. He knew instinctively that her words had been for him alone and Escthta bowed his head low, lifting it only when he felt the warmth of the Goddess move away. He reeled from her nearness, which numbed his senses, like a cloying scent that he could neither name nor resist.

Anise watched the old female approach her, moving to stand only as she drew closer. She came up only to the Matriarch's solar plexus, and felt very small and vulnerable in front of such a great creature. She saw the finely wrought filigree on the tusk-rings, the rich stones on her collar and headdress that shunned no hue. The thin fabric that showed her dappled hide showed also the muscles it stretched over; the curve of her breasts, the scars from fights ages ago. Her knowing eyes, infinitely wise, sat deep under her heavily-lined brow. This close, she could see the age marks, and Anise knew that the Hunter in front of her was impossibly old.

_I have a gift for you as well, H'chak-di._ The voice was in her head, the same rich alto that had spoken to her first in the room with the gathering of Hunters. Anise knew as she met the Matriarch's eyes that the words were ones only she could hear. The Matriarch knelt, bending her knee to touch the floor, her thighs bunching up into massive cords that strained to loose their power. With one hand, she smoothed her thumb across Anise's forehead, leaving behind a faint shadow of light. She said no more, but rose and moved away to the last guest.

Hir'cyn was on his feet even before the Matriarch had finished with the human. He dipped his head as she approached, but she made no move to touch him. _I do not have a gift prepared for you, Elder_, said the velvety voice in his head. "I ask but two things, Lady," he said softly.

The Matriarch leaned in to listen and then nodded slightly. "The first will be done immediately. The second will come in good time."

**xXx**

The seven Council members watched the doors close with a solid thud. It was some moments before anyone spoke.

"An interesting development." Noskor sat down in his chair, his single eye unfocused, looking at things far away.

"Interesting, my foot," grouched Bruyaun. "Humans will only bring ruin upon us. They did before."

Ren'da clicked softly, his trill betraying his interest. "I think this, perhaps, is different. The incident of which you speak, Bruyaun, had markedly different circumstances." Ren'da also seated himself, taking up a cup of water and sipping at it reservedly.

Tjat'le remained standing, looking at the door that remained closed, carved with the representation of Paya herself. The chambers of Paya remained closed when she was not on the planet, and she rarely used it to hold hearings while she was on planet. He paced around the Council chambers, stopping to look at the doors every time he passed the chair the Matriarch had occupied. His rounds grew more leisurely, but his agitation became more and more obvious with each round.

A crash shattered the uneasy silence as Tjat'le hurled his ceramic water bowl at a wall. "What the shit is going on!"

"I can't say," offered Noskor from behind his steepled hands, his eyes still staring out into space.

Tjat'le snarled and balled his fists, searching for something to lay into. Moments slid by and still the doors remained shut. A slave came by to clean up the fragments of bowl and Tjat'le kicked him viciously, carving a furrow in his side with a spur.

"Get out of my sight, you…!" Unable to come up with a sufficiently vile epithet, Tjat'le kicked him again and roared him out of the room.

"Settle down, Tjat'le," droned Ghanede. The strategist was making small notes on a piece of holofilm. "You won't accomplish anything by kicking slaves and making the rest of us miserable."

"The hell I won't!" and Tjat'le began to advance on the doors to Paya's chambers.

"Tjat'le!" Kvar'ye bellowed the Council Leader's name with enough force to stop him mid-tread. He spun on his heel, looking dangerously belligerent, his eyes daring Kvar'ye to question him further.

Kvar'ye gestured to the chair next to him, and Tjat'le reluctantly stomped back to the table, throwing himself into the proffered chair, Noskor on the other side of him. Kvar'ye leaned over on one elbow.

"Liege, we can only speculate about what is going on in Paya's chambers right now. But it is becoming clear that the Psionic is becoming a greater threat. If he is meeting with Paya without us present, he may be acquiring any and all knowledge she has." His voice lowered to conspiratorial tones. "The Matriarch may be trying to seize power."

Tjat'le was startled out of his sulk by Kvar'ye's words. "You see conspiracy at every turn, Kvar'ye," he answered, brushing off the concerns with one wave of his clawed hand.

"I do not think we should dismiss his concerns out of hand," said Noskor quietly.

Tjat'le lifted a brow. "Oh, really?" He turned back to Kvar'ye expectantly.

"She has never left the females to themselves on the broodworld after a Council, and the fact that she has waited so long for the Psionic to return." Kvar'ye's eyes slid shiftily to the carved doors and then back to Tjat'le. "Something isn't right. If she's a scientific specimen, why is she with the Matriarch, and not Thtarok?"

Tjat'le frowned. "Where _is_ Thtarok?"

**xXx**

The memories only came to him in flashes, never all at once. It was just as well, he thought. Made things last longer. The skull watched him with hollow eyes, and Thtarok clicked softly at it, purring his pleasure.

"_NO, STOP!"_

It felt so good. He remembered her screams again, his hands tightening. She had been his first kill. A 'young male', as he recounted to his Clan leader, but he knew the truth, as did anyone who examined it closely. They never got the chance, of course. No one got that close to her. No one but him.

_He stood over her, his ki'cti-pa glistening. Shreds of skin hung off her legs, the exposed bone a beautiful shade of pink. She was sobbing, but quieting as she started going into shock. The blood, so red, strange on his hands, and he was fascinated with the way it coated his blades, flowing down the serrated edges. Thtarok slung his blades, spattering her with her own blood and relishing the smears made on her arms as she continued to crawl away. _

He squeezed his eyes shut against the skull's unyielding gaze, painting her flesh, her fear and agony back onto the clean bone, watching her tear-stained cheeks turn red with blood that hadn't been drained. He remembered the texture of her skin as it came off, a soft hide that had tanned into a buttery leather. He sucked in air fast; her skin had almost finished him, but a pause brought his libido back under control. He shivered, stroking himself slowly, opening his eyes to stare at the skull's mocking sockets. It was still there, the hairline fracture.

_Her hair was matted with dirt, leaves and mud, but it was an effective way to restrain her. He had only half-flayed part of her leg, mostly to excite her fear. And she was so afraid. It was a living nightmare for her, and he was her own personal monster. She screamed again, sobbing, but it wasn't begging for mercy; it was the cry of someone who is in pain and wants it over by any means necessary. The last whimper escaped as he broke her neck, a gift given to her for being so very entertaining. Her heart continued to pump what blood remained, and he realized that her brain would still be alive for a few seconds, current still arcing from one neuron to the next as the cells tried to figure out what had happened, where things had gone wrong. He dug into her socket for her eye, removing it easily and flicking it into the dirt. The socket opened, red and wet, into her skull. _

It didn't matter how many times he tried, or the different ways he explored, Thtarok never held out. He could never make himself last until the explosive moment in his memories and his hands became the same. He closed his hand over the slickness, stepping away to wash his hands of his secret sin.

The skull looked on, empty-eyed.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Congratulations on making it to these notes. I apologize for the length of time it has taken for this chapter to make its way here. It is amazing that an excess of free time will actually reduce writing time. I have a very heavy semester ahead of me, so you'll probably get lots of chapters as I seek to ignore my academic responsibilities. :)_

_Thanks to Miika, who gave me ideas on just how gross things could get. Thanks also to Solain Rhyo and Drakonlily for their gross input and their beta. _


	14. A Shadow Coming Closer

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _I am sure you all thought I had abandoned this fic, but I haven't. See additional Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

A crash and muffled shout attracted the Matriarch's attention. "It appears that Tjat'le is losing his temper." Her voice was wry, as if she had expected the development.

"I caution you to keep what I have told you to yourselves. Panic will not help our cause." She looked squarely at Escthta. "And keep her close to you. There _will_ be attempts on her life, and you must stop them."

"You say that like you've arranged them," Anise said uneasily. The Matriarch smiled, and in the context, it seemed markedly sinister. "H'chak-di, I do not expect that one so recently come to know our people would trust me immediately. But I see much, even into the hearts of those under my guidance, and what is there is not always pretty." She flicked a glance at Escthta, and then turned her attention back to Anise. "He was chosen because he was the best possible candidate to protect a human here, and I can think of few that would be a match for him."

Anise slid her eyes to Escthta, looking at him again, but almost for the first time. The silver rings around his lower tusks glinted, even in shadow. His eyes were strangely solemn, and he appeared very serious. The entire discussion had taken perhaps half an hour, but it seemed forever ago since she agreed to become the subject of experiments aimed at saving the lives of Hunters.

"Does Thtarok know?" Escthta had been quiet for some time and Anise recognized the pensive expression he wore, one mandible tapping slightly against his inner teeth.

Paya raised one brow and then shook her head. "He is a scientist, but his vision is limited by a crisis of faith." She smiled wanly. "Besides, you will have other concerns with him. He is not to be trusted, although we need him. He will be assisted by one of my own scientists, who reports to me personally."

Escthta nodded and then turned toward the doors, reaching out to push them open and then thinking better of it. Beyond these doors was a group of Hunters that feared him, found the human dangerous, and could not be trusted. All his life, the Council had dictated the whims of their society, the breedings and Bloodings that went on. The meeting with the Matriarch had changed everything. He was conspiring against the Council and keeping information from them, guarding and protecting what should be rightfully prey, and all because of a nebulous threat of species extinction from his God.

Escthta shook off the philosophical bent. There would be time later to reflect on the far-reaching implications of the bargain struck today between human and Hunter. But there were other things to consider. Like how a petite female human would be disguised in a world of giants.

**xXx**

Noskor looked up as Escthta entered the room. He caught the smell of _c'ntha_ right away; it was a vice he indulged in himself, and he wondered to what use it had been put in the Matriarch's chambers. The human walked in Escthta's shadow, though not closely. She was distanced from him, her eyes downcast, while Escthta strode forward with shoulders back and head raised. Noskor flicked his eyes to the Matriarch. Her enigmatic smile moved across her face, and she closed the doors with both hands, shutting herself inside her chambers, and leaving the Elder, Escthta and the human standing in front of the Council's assemblage.

"Where is Thtarok?" Noskor looked at Escthta again, his once protégé, and felt a stab of guilt. He had sent the young Psionic on what might have been a deadly mission, but he had returned, with the appropriate object. Escthta must have spent days evaluating possible specimens, ruling out those that were beyond child-bearing age, those with families (because revenge is a powerful motivator) and those that were too emotionally fragile to make the trip. How many scores of human women had he looked through?

"He is not here." Noskor glanced at Tjat'le, who was still looking ruffled from the long time they had spent in the Matriarch's company. Noskor didn't truly believe that Escthta was any more capable of mutinous intent than he was. However, Kvar'ye's words had gotten to Tjat'le, and the Council Leader was watching the human and her Protector warily.

"I speak for the human when I say that we are eager to begin the experiments. The sooner we begin, the sooner they will conclude, and things can return to normal." Noskor nodded and then looked at Hir'cyn. The Elder's eyes were focused elsewhere, and Noskor made a mental note to speak with him later.

**xXx**

Cthinde stared moodily into his bowl. The alcohol hadn't given him the loosened inhibitions he'd hoped for. He waited, but the laughter never came, and he grew more and more sullen as he drank. Escthta was down on the homeworld, turning the human in to the Council, but he had been gone for a day already. Cthinde was eager to get their next Hunting assignment, but he had heard nothing from Escthta, nothing from the Council, nothing, period.

Where the hell was he? They had Hunts to go on, and he had to be there. They had been friends since Blooding, since before then, and it wouldn't be right to leave him. It wouldn't be right to abandon him.

With each hour that passed, his restlessness grew, and his darkest corners of his mind spoke treasonous thoughts; Escthta was getting his own Clan or planning to take over the _Zanna_. He drowned them with drink. Escthta may have been acting strangely, but that was to be expected around humans. He would wait for Escthta to contact him. If he hadn't done so before, there could only be a good reason for it. And yet…the mutinous voices grew more subtle, more cunning, poisoning his mind against the human, who was taking up his friend's precious time.

**xXx**

Escthta sighed inwardly, deciding that perhaps it was better that the scientist had slunk off to parts unknown. He felt exhausted, although they had only been awake for three hours at the most. He wanted a meal and a drink, and he lifted his hand to his temple, rubbing at it and hoping the headache that was forming would reconsider its timing. He looked down at H'chak-di, her dark head bowed. He needed to secure H'chak-di somewhere.

Escthta moved into her personal space, and she responded as he thought she would, by moving away. They moved out of the Council chambers and down the long hallways, into the foyer, where the great skull of the carnivore rested, bathed in soft white light. The bone nearly glowed, and H'chak-di stopped at it, and her voice was small.

"These things have been dead for millions of years."

Escthta blinked. Humans had never shared a planet with the carnivore in question, but the enormous predator had been brought down only six hundred years ago, in the one of the last of the Great Hunts. Most trophies were destroyed with their hunters, but this one, hunted by the last Council, survived as a testament to the brutal wilderness outside the City. "Perhaps in your world, H'chak-di. They are very much alive in ours."

The car awaited them outside, its dark, driverless shell cracking to admit them. Escthta nudged H'chak-di inside and then turned to find Hir'cyn paused at the threshold, looking over his shoulder as if he had forgotten something. Escthta frowned, but when he was about to ask after the problem, Hir'cyn raised a hand. "I will meet with you later, Escthta. The quarters that were yours last night are now yours permanently, so far as your Protection is required." Distracted by some unknown noise, he looked over his shoulder again, and then made an offhanded wave of dismissal, disappearing into the Council building again.

Escthta seated himself in the car, staring at the closing doors of the Council, the black hall disappearing behind them, and Hir'cyn's figure vanishing inside. He shook his head slightly, clearing the confusion from it; he had been able to sense little of Hir'cyn's intent, little of his emotional state, and he had heard nothing in their meetings with the Matriarch or since that could require Hir'cyn's attention.

That left himself and H'chak-di alone in the car. She was seated across from him, her hand folded in her lap, the plain silvery sheets he had brought her so long ago forsaken for the simple shift in the baths. He smiled inwardly; of course, saviors always dressed in rags. She was stone-faced, her eyes downcast. Her hair curtained her face, and her mind was equally veiled. He could feel pain, anger, confusion and sorrow, but these things were not new in her mind. Perhaps the difference was in the rings his tusks bore, perhaps the difference was in the _c'ntha_. Something had changed between the time they had entered the building and now.

"Thank you again, H'chak-di."

"No problem." Her answer was sour, and she stared out the window to avoid looking at him.

He frowned. "I know it was a difficult decision for you, but I _am_ grateful. I do not yet know the full scope of this experiment, but I will not let harm come to you as long as I am alive."

"I'm sure they'd have no problem killing us both."

"It would mean their death."

"Many people die for causes."

"And what cause is that?"

"Your Council, of course." She made an offhanded shrug in his direction. "It's obvious that the only power they have is the Matriarch's." She said no more, offering no insight on her train of thought.

"H'chak-di," he began again, eager to shake off the clipped parts of their conversation, "I am not concerned with the Council or their power plays. I am charged with your safety and I intend to fulfill my obligation."

She snorted quietly, and he frowned. Waves of resentment moved beyond the perimeters of her mind, washing over him in a noxious tide. He couldn't identify its source, but he wasn't very well equipped to confront it in any case. The sun had reached its peak, shining down on the robot car, and even the tinted windows did not block the rays fully. He shaded his eyes with a hand; H'chak-di, opposite him, was subject to much of the same glare, but only screwed her pale face into a grimace.

The car slowed, pulling up along the side of the building they had left only a few hours before. Escthta stepped out of the car, looking around, and then opening the entry. H'chak-di slid out of the car, sullen, and lagged behind him as they walked down the halls. The door to their suite slid aside and they stepped inside. Escthta turned around, and then clicked at her encouragingly.

"These will be our quarters indefinitely."

Her silence became less sullen and more shocked. "But… I have to share a room with you?"

Escthta blinked. Nudity and communal living were cornerstones of yautja life. Everyone saw their companions nude; it completed the sense of community, of togetherness, and without barriers, they worked more efficiently as a team. That kind of cohesion was necessary on the more challenging Hunts, like the ones for breeding _kainde amedha_ Queens. But of course, H'chak-di shared no such nudity, no such communion with him or his Clan members. Of course she would not want to share a room with him; it was an invasion of her personal space. He would respect her wishes, of course, were it not for the specters of assassination that loomed like shadows at sunset.

"I must be near you. The Matriarch said there will be attempts on your life. I have no reason to believe they would not come while we slept."

"Who knows that I'm here, other than the Council, the Elder, your whole ship and the Matriarch?" There was a touch of sarcasm in her voice, but Escthta ignored it.

"No place is safe from curious ears, H'chak-di. The presence of a human would cause a panic, so we can safely assume that the general public doesn't know."

"But there are factions in your Council. Like that big ugly one. You can just tell he's got something going on." She trailed off even as she finished.

Escthta stared at her, wondering if she found him ugly as well, if he was so one-dimensional in her mind. He looked at her, noting her expression had changed from a sulk to uncertainty. The walls around her mind were crumbling, falling in on themselves, slowly exposing her to him again. Eager to chip away at that crack in her façade, he could not help asking, "Which big ugly one?"

"I don't know- they were all ugly."

Escthta's mandibles twitched in amusement. He would naturally refrain from telling her how many of the stares directed at her had been in disgust. Bruyaun, in particular, was known to have a weak constitution, but then again, he was just as likely to be the 'big ugly one' as any other member of the Council. "You amaze me, H'chak-di," he said, his mandibles clicking amiably. "Which big ugly one indeed," he chuckled.

She smiled uneasily, human laughter from his mouth seeming out of place. "Do we have to stay in this room? Couldn't we move to another?"

Escthta rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "This place is not suitable?"

"There aren't any windows."

It was true. There were no windows; this was an interior suite, protected on all sides by walls. He frowned; windows would leave them exposed, vulnerable to attack from another side. There was no arguing; windows would not work.

H'chak-di seemed to sense his conclusion and hazarded an interception. "Even little windows?"

Escthta drew breath in deeply and then nodded. "Here, for tonight. Tomorrow, I will see about getting one with windows." She smiled weakly and then nodded. She moved toward the second half of the room, trailing her hand over the bed, the coverlet still wrinkled from the previous evening's sleep.

"So what will be required of me?"

Escthta turned to find her seated on her bed, swinging her feet, looking down at her hands. The question seemed more forced than anything else, and he felt her fear and apprehension swelling.

"You have agreed to be a subject for testing. I do not know what that will encompass. Only Thtarok will know what such testing will require." He saw again, in the corner of his mind, the faintest red glimmer of Thtarok's fantasies, and he spoke quickly. "I am not going to abandon you to him. I am your Protector, no one else."

Her voice was small. "Yeah."

He could not read her thoughts, but sensed a great turmoil inside her small skull. He sighed quietly. It had already been a long day, and there were still many hours before night fell. The midday meal would be brought soon; at least that might numb the bite of his suddenly upset stomach.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn rode in the car with his newly acquired charge. He had been surprised at how easy it was to obtain him, but of course, the Matriarch would compensate his owner for his loss. He looked at the other yautja in the car, and down at the ugly misshapen foot, talons ingrown, callused at strange angles as he walked on it.

His request had been impulsive, but he did not regret it. He told himself it was his way of protecting the human, by obtaining the Council's slave, who had seen her. But he knew that argument did not hold water; the groomers in the bath house had seen her, as surely as the slaves aboard the _Zanna_ had. But he made up for his faulty reasoning with his plans for the future. He outlined his requests on a thin piece of telefilm, the plastic sheet equipped with an upload device for communication. Tomorrow, he would begin his own contribution to what he had begun to think of as the 'Great Experiment'.

**xXx**

The midday meal came and left with few events. H'chak-di asked about the meal, and what it included, and she seemed relieved when he told her that the meat did not come from humans, and the grain was produced by low-lying swamps near the City. She asked about their world, and Escthta was forced to admit that he knew little of it.

"You mean your entire population is concentrated in this huge city?"

Escthta nodded. "Thousands of years ago, our people were scattered in many, many small tribes over this world. Some were great, building cities for themselves, while others had little more than the skins on their backs. In an effort to unite us, this great City was built, and all the tribes moved into it. From there, our civilization developed rapidly until we developed space travel."

"But weren't there people that didn't want to live in this City?"

"Of course," Escthta acknowledged with a gesture of his drinking bowl,"but their ancestors have since been welcomed into the City. We are a unified whole, and the tribes no longer exist."

"So, why unite in the first place?"

Escthta frowned. "There are many reasons, each of which by themselves would be reason enough. The large predators changed their hunting habits, seeking out small villages and snatching residents. Some parts of the planet became inhospitable." He shrugged. "It was best for all of us."

"Hmm." She looked thoughtful and he wondered what she was turning over in her mind. Escthta took advantage of the pause and opened his own line of questions.

"I have been wondering something these past weeks, and now that I have the chance to ask, I will." He took a deep breath and then asked, "What is that band you wear around your finger?"

"It's my wedding ring." She stopped eating, looking at the gold band her third finger bore. She didn't offer any other explanation, so after a moment, Escthta pressed the question.

"What does it do?"

"It doesn't _do_ anything. Humans exchange wedding rings and vows when they become partners. They vow to love, honor and cherish each other until death parts them. Sometimes they live a long time, sometimes… they don't."

He sensed that she considered the matter closed, but he filed it away to ask about again at a later date. He was about to ask another question when she put her drinking bowl on the table and got to her feet. She walked over to her bed and lay down, and they did not speak for the rest of the day.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn tapped gently on the sumcom. The hour was late; he had spent the large part of the day getting his new slave cleaned and deloused, checked out by the medics and prepared for the next day. It was well after sundown when Hir'cyn arrived at Escthta's quarters. The Gift of Tongues had given him articulate human speech, and he could only wonder what the younger yautja had gleaned from H'chak-di.

Escthta allowed him into the room after seeing the Elder's familiar face. "Greetings, Elder."  
Hir'cyn dismissed the honorific with a wave of his hand. "The human?"

"Asleep."

Hir'cyn hid his disappointment; he had been eager to use Escthta's new ability to ask questions about humans, communicate directly with the enigmatic creatures he had so often hunted, their skulls decorating his walls. In his old age, he was prizing the skull less, and lusting after the grey matter inside it, with all its mysterious secrets.

"You've had her here all day. Surely she cannot have slept that long."

Escthta shook his head. "She hasn't. I am still not entirely sure what happened, but I am afraid some of my earliest questions touched a nerve."

"It would appear that females of either species are sensitive," Hir'cyn offered by way of apology. He clapped Escthta on the back. "Don't let it worry you. Things will be right in the morning. Sleep improves their tempers."

Escthta nodded slowly, and then moved to pour a small drink. He handed Hir'cyn one small cup, taking the other for himself, the ruddy liquor obscuring the polished stone's grain. He sipped at it thoughtfully, reclining on a floor cushion before addressing Hir'cyn. "What was it you had to take care of earlier?"

Hir'cyn looked up, preoccupied, and then took a long draught of his drink. "I have acquired a new… property. You remember the slave with the club foot?"

Escthta nodded and then Hir'cyn gestured vaguely with his cup. "I own him now."

Escthta raised one brow, tilting his head at a quizzical angle. "Why him?"  
Hir'cyn smiled, a toothy grin between his mandibles, and then said, "I intend to conduct my own experiments."

"What kind of experiments?"  
"Well, nothing like H'chak-di's experiment, if that's what you're imagining. A social experiment, if you will."

"Oh?"

"We hate those that are ugly or different and enslave them. Rightfully so; they can't pull their own weight in society, so they must be supported by those of us that can. What if one of those untouchables was made whole again? What might happen?"

Escthta shrugged; the question had never occurred to him before. Those born with defects or deformities were killed or enslaved, if their ugliness could be borne. That there might be another way to handle the matter was never broached in conversation- that's the way things were.

"I have heard," continued Hir'cyn, "of a medic of high caliber, one who may change the body at will. Granted," he said, holding up a clawed hand at Escthta's beginnings of protest," granted, it is against our teachings, against Paya's will, that we undo that with which she has made us."

He finished his drink and set the cup down. "But there are those who were not born, but _made_ deformed."

"Made deformed? By whom? And for what reason?"

"I am not sure, but I am sure that Rathde's situation is not unique." He leaned forward, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "I mean to undo the injury that was visited on him, return to him his unaltered form." Escthta blinked several times. It didn't seem to make sense; how would they be able to tell slaves from able-bodied yautja? And then he looked at Hir'cyn, his face flush with realization.

"You wouldn't be able to tell him from any other yautja. He'd be just like the rest of us." Hir'cyn nodded slowly, his eyes meeting Escthta's. Escthta felt from him a frenzy, an exuberance that threatened to burst out of his whispered conspiracy and become a full-throated cry for freedom.

"That's your social experiment," Escthta breathed, his mind whirling with the boldness of it. What would happen to their social structure? Who would take in the miscreants? How would they Hunt? Would they be educated? Rehabilitated? How would the yautja culture function without its slaves? Could it function at all?

"I have been spending time in the library, reading early accounts of life in the City. There have been no mentions of slaves anywhere. In fact," Hir'cyn said, refilling his cup, "there are no mentions of slaves before the City, either." He downed the liquor in one gulp, wincing at the slight burn and then sighing at the warmth in his belly.

"Slavery is an artificial construct of this City, and yautja were never meant to be treated this way. We are a proud people, and to be mangled and brutalized, not permitted the release of death- it's dishonorable," he finished, his face beginning to show the flush of alcohol. Escthta clicked gently at the Elder. "I think we've had enough discussion. It is late, and our day begins early tomorrow."

**xXx**

Morning came early for Hir'cyn. He rose when the sun was only a pale blush on the horizon, urging Rathde up from his pallet. Rathde's disposition had been much improved by a full meal and bath, though the shifty look had returned this morning, his eyes distrustful. When Hir'cyn approached him, Rathde seethed with hate and fear.

"Get up. We're going out."

"I don't want to."

Hir'cyn sighed heavily, and then kicked Rathde sharply in the ribs. "When I say get up, you get up," he hissed, pulling the whimpering slave up from his cot.

Rathde hesitated a moment more before reluctantly getting to his feet. Hir'cyn looked at him, trying to quash the repulsion he felt. In a way, the Great Experiment was as much on himself as Rathde. The challenge would not be to retrofit mistreated slaves like Rathde, free them into the public, but to overcome the instinctual urge to kill that was ingrained in every one of them.

"Where are we going?"

"That's not any of your concern." Hir'cyn waited for Rathde as he limped out of their suite. He saw that Escthta and H'chak-di's room was still occupied, the sumcom a faintly glowing red. He would join them again later, after he had taken care of Rathde.

The early morning sun cast wide swaths of light into the automated car. Hir'cyn quickly put his instructions into the drive unit, making sure that it would not pass too near to the medic's operations, as he had requested. Any Elder or higher rank could access the logs of the car's arrival and departure. They would have to walk a small distance to reach the medic, but that was better than someone figuring out his destination too quickly. His comings and goings were being watched, and while he didn't hope to throw someone off completely, he hoped to confuse them enough that his trail would not be followed by any but the most determined.

Rathde was impossibly slow, his misshapen foot unused to anything but the polished stone in the Council's building. By the time they reached the point where they would be turning to meet the medic, raw sores had opened up on the bottom of his foot, leaving a damp green spot with every step. The way to the entrance lay through a filthy alley, as all dens of illegal activity did. Hir'cyn worried only momentarily about forcing Rathde to walk through it on his lacerated foot. It wouldn't matter much either way. Rathde, to his credit, was silent, enduring whatever pain he felt with a small measure of dignity.

The entrance was recessed into the wall, behind what appeared to be a stack of metal pallets. The whole construct, pallets and all, rolled to the side smoothly, with no noise, and admitted them inside. The door began closing before Rathde even began to move forward, and it was Hir'cyn's strong arm that pulled him inside.

The interior was brightly lit, sterile, and two medics rushed up to take custody of their patient. "What are you doing?"

Rathde keened as they picked him up and put him on a gurney. The gurney's suspensor system whined as the weight was put on it, and Rathde began to thrash.

"Where are you taking me? What's going on?"

"Quiet, slave." Hir'cyn regretted the word as it left his mouth, but it had the effect he wanted; it reminded him that Rathde was not in control of his own destiny, and that Hir'cyn had control over that, whatever it might be.

Rathde's eyes narrowed as he met the Elder's unflinching stare. Hir'cyn had to hand it to him; even after who knew how many years of mistreatment and neglect, he was still rebellious. It was not something Hir'cyn tolerated in yautja, slaves or otherwise. When he said something, he wanted a response, clear-cut and immediate. "Take him," he said to the medics, and fell into step behind them.

Down a hallway and around the corner, large white doors with no windows waited, and behind them another hallway. Hir'cyn could feel a downward slope in the muscles of his calves, and they passed around another corner. Back and forth they went, until finally the white walls gave way to grey, and a final set of white doors opened onto an immaculate operation room. Preoccupied with an instrument stand, the medic was alone in the center of the room.

His name was not important, not now. The lower half of his face was hidden in a swath of sterile fabric, his thin hands already in gloves. "Glad you could make it," he said icily.

"We had a deal."

"Of course. So we did." Medic looked over at Rathde. "Is this the patient?"

"Yes."

Medic touched a tool to the suspensor readout; it calibrated the needle to inject just the right amount for Rathde's body weight. The slave struggled, but the two assistants held him fast. The sedative worked in minutes, calming Rathde and steadying his heartbeat.

"With that out of the way, we can get down to business," the medic said, his sentences clipped. He moved down to Rathde's foot, examining it. After a few moments of poking it and turning it, he looked up at Hir'cyn.

"I would have to scan him to be sure, but his foot has almost surely been broken and set improperly." His voice thickened with disgust. "Hobbling is rare, because it reduces a slave's effectiveness, but it does still occur."

"I was given the impression that it was done as a punishment."

"Punishment?"

"He was a Blooded Hunter. Look at his head." Medic looked, tracing the Blooding mark with one gloved finger. "This does change things," he murmured, but did not elaborate. He straightened, and marking Hir'cyn's keen stare, sighed.

"We have two options, and as his owner, I'll leave it up to you to decide which one we proceed with. The first is amputation. Since we are capable of limited regeneration, I can give him a new foot from a donor, which his body will replace with its own cells in time. It is a long surgery, but he should have use of the leg within a few days, maybe less. He will need to take anti-rejection drugs for several years, but after his body has gone through one cell replacement, the dose can be tapered off and stopped."

Hir'cyn absorbed the information, and the Medic continued. "The other option is re-breaking his foot and setting it correctly. It would be quick- you could leave immediately- but he would require constant physical therapy for several months to overcome his limp after the bones have healed." The medic crisped his gloved hands together. "Those are your options, as I see them. I would recommend the second method, as it puts him to real work sooner, but he's your slave."

Hir'cyn looked down at Rathde, at the lines in his face eased by the chemical cocktail; without the constant fear marked in his face, he looked more his age, some 400 years. "I think the first method suits my needs better," Hir'cyn said finally.

The medic lifted one eyebrow in faint surprise, but nodded. "We will begin immediately."

**xXx**

Escthta woke long after the sun had risen. H'chak-di was sitting up in her bed, her head resting back against the wall. She heard him stir and moved her head to look at him.

"Good morning."

Escthta nodded sleepily. "Good morning."

"How did you sleep?"  
"I slept well. And you?"

"All right." She looked down at her hands.

"H'chak-di, about yesterday-"

"Don't worry about it. I just...wasn't prepared to talk about it so suddenly. I should have expected questions like that, but even expecting them, I didn't know what to say." She lifted her head to look at him. "My husband, my partner, died eight months back. The mineral in those mines on Craxan Prime, it got in their lungs, got into their brains and killed them slowly."

Escthta was stunned silent; disease was rare in yautja, who took great pains to insulate themselves from the worlds they traveled. Their bodies had tough high pressure regimes, designed to keep contagions out of circulation, and they bathed rigorously. A healthy body was necessary to Hunt. To lose one's body was to lose everything; it was one reason why the deformed were so repulsive.

He stood, raking his nails over his abdomen, idly scratching itches that traveled over his skin. He had nearly woken completely when she finally said it.

"You killed my brother."

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _At last, a chapter with significant length! This was not the place I had hoped to end it, but as I wrote it, it seemed like a logical stopping point for a chapter that had already exceeded 5000 words (!)_

_ There are parts in this story where characters seem to say one thing and then turn around and do another; these are parts of their characters in transition.  
_


	15. Basilisk

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_See Author's Notes at the end of this chapter._

**xXx**

He did not seem surprised, Anise thought. She had spent much of the previous day lying in bed, thinking of ways to broach the subject, but none of her imagined scenarios had changed with a different introduction. It was better to be direct. The words were strange in her mouth; her voice had faltered a bit in the accusation of murder. Even now, she almost regretted them- things might have gone on as they were, polite conversation at meals, silent afternoons spent in idle pursuits, and even some delicate wordplay. But the possibilities were shattered by her voice in the morning air. She reminded herself, lest she forget, that this man, this creature she shared a room with had murdered her brother.

Escthta eased out of his stretch. "Excuse me," he said, and stepped into the other room. She heard him go into the lavatory, and then the faucet running for a long time and the splash of water over skin. He came in, face freshly wet, drying it with one of the cloths. He tossed it to the side and then sat down on his bed again, their eyes meeting, nearly on the same level.

"Yes." He paused. "I did not know what he was to you at the time, but yes, I killed him."

"You murdered him."

"I saved him."

"He was fine until you got there. Fine until you and your bugs showed up…" Her voice strained. Dammit, she had sworn that there would be no weakness!

"Those bugs weren't mine. They inhabit that planet naturally. There are no less than three mature hives on Craxan Prime."

"Then why would the Company send us there, knowing that? Knowing we would die?"

"That is something only they can answer." He was calm, very calm, and she felt bitterness and hatred creep into her heart. He had no right to try to shift blame from himself to Weyland-Yutani. How dare he sit there quietly with his horrible face and atrocious society? How dare he pass judgment on her or Jake?

"But you killed him, not the Company."

"I did."

Her rage erupted. "How could you? He was just there, helpless. And you shot him through! There wasn't much left! At least with the Craxan flu, I could have had a funeral instead of a massacre!" Hysterics were creeping in, and she huffed, trying to breathe steadily, trying to settle her now-excited lungs down into something that wasn't sobs.

"And Lucas! You couldn't even leave me with a body to bury!" Her focus varied; she began to gesticulate wildly, throwing her hands up, sweeping her arms around, but there were no movements large enough to gather up her grief and push it away.

"You wouldn't have been able to bury him. The _kainde amedha_ would have taken you, too."

"Shut up. I don't want to hear your stupid language or your stupid traditions. I can't believe I even agreed to this crazy stunt."

Escthta threaded his fingers together, waiting for her to continue. It galled him to be spoken to in such a manner by a creature little more than half his size, but he withstood her assault. This, he realized, was part of her grieving, and she needed to be angry at him. The less he said, the better she would come through this.

"It's not like I had a choice in the matter anyway," she muttered sourly.

Escthta rankled. _That_ was a statement that could not go unchallenged. "You had a choice. You chose to come with me."

"Yeah, a choice between you and bugs. That's a great choice." Her sarcasm was calculated to flay his nerves, and it worked.

"It _was_ a choice," Escthta insisted.

"You know, I don't think there was a choice at all. I think you set this whole thing up. Because if you came down by yourselves and said, 'Can you help us?' the whole planet would have taken one look at your ugly mugs and headed for the hills. So instead, you soften the population up by sending your attack dogs down to scare the living daylights out of people, eat a few miners. That way, after you've murdered their family, you don't feel any kind of guilt in tricking people to come with you."

His fist clenched, and Anise smiled to herself. _Bingo._

"The truth hurts, doesn't it? Tell me, how many other humans did you kidnap? How many other women had their families destroyed by your bugs and your guns? How many other people made a choice with bugs breathing down their necks? It's not a hard choice when you give it to them that way, so you got all the humans you needed."

Her eyes were a murky green, darkened under her furrowed brow. "I bet they're all here, right now, each of them fed the same line of bullshit by your Matriarch. It's easy to fool humans if they think they're the only one that can do something. I bet you could speak to me the whole time, but it's so much easier when you can do that pantomime shit and play dumb."

He was visibly upset now, both fists clenched, his mandibles twitching. His eyes glinted dangerously, their yellow-green flashing with promised violence. One more push would send him over the edge, and Anise knew instinctively what that push would be. "They're all women. That's why no one is freaking out about me being here. That's why no one is asking questions. Tell me, Talon," she said, using her original name for him, "where do you keep the human women you rape? Do you let them live or not?"

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" He moved the distance between them in one stride, his hand around her throat, pressing her down into the mattress. "How DARE you say such things! I killed Gulchak for less, ripped his throat out with my bare hands for daring to breathe such insults!" He tightened his grip around that white column, watching her eyes roll down to maintain contact with his.

She was defiant even in such a position, supine, pinned under his weight. Escthta crouched over her, moving directly into her line of sight, so that their eyes met and his meaning would be unmistakable.

"I should kill you right now. Nothing, no one would stop me. I can snap your neck as you lay here and no one would care." His rage nearly blinded him, surging through him and powering him as the Hunt never did.

"You think there are humans all over this planet? Why not just throw you all in a cell? Why bother giving you real beds and meals? Why should I bother protecting you if you're all over the place? You think I like knowing my species is beholden to creatures like you, vermin? Do you?"

She closed her eyes and he emphasized his point with a shake, jerking her head to look at him. "Look at me, damn you. _Look_ at me." She did, and he sighed at the resentment he saw in her eyes.

"Like it or not, we are in this together. I have sworn to protect you from attempts on your life, even if those attempts are mine." His anger began to drift away. The conversation, one-sided as it was, was calming him down. "It is difficult enough for us, as a people, to acknowledge weakness. I shouldn't have to have my honor destroyed in the process. I need you to cooperate with me. Please."

His hand loosened, came away from her neck, and he saw from the redness that there would be bruising. She turned her head away from him, coughing, and finally murmured, "Fine."

They stayed like that for some moments, Escthta thankful for the reprieve and Anise sulking underneath him. Finally, she turned back to look at him, her stare sullen, rebellious. "Are you going to get off me now?"

Escthta eased to one side, sitting upright. She sat up, rubbing her throat. "But I don't have to like it. Or you."

He sighed, realizing that this might simply be the way things were. "Fair enough."

Escthta stood, looking down at her and cocked his head to one side. "Your name means 'she of mercy'. Do you know why?"

"I don't. Should I care?"

"You helped us, even though you had no reason to. You held a knife to my throat but did not kill me. There are many ways you are merciful."

"Cowardly," she spat. "I wish I had killed you."

"You are no killer, H'chak-di. Even alone on a ship, a stranger among strange people, you could not kill when you had the opportunity." He flexed his mandibles in a smile. "That is why I do not fear for my life when protecting yours."

"Even after all this?" Her voice was incredulous.

"Even after all this."

She was quiet, looking at her bare feet. "You're a fool, Escthta."

"Perhaps I am. But I trust you." He moved to the sumcom and keyed in a command.

"The morning meal will be here soon." He indicated the separate lavatory. "If you wish to bathe, I would recommend doing so."

Anise slid out of bed reluctantly, scrubbing her skin with a diluted solution of the brown soap and rinsing as quickly as she dared. She toweled off with the other of the two cloths, and then shrugged into her shift. By the time she stepped out, the meal had arrived, the uncovered bowls steaming. They ate in silence, but by the time they left, Anise felt the tension from yesterday nearly evaporated. The fight had helped, it had straightened things out between them, so that neither one was operating on false pretenses. As they got into the now familiar robotic car, she reflected on it, deciding that this was for the best. Honesty was, after all, the best policy.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn displayed an unhealthy curiosity in the body and its functions, so he stayed in the operating room to watch. It was against protocols, but the medic, Gthren, was not affected by the presence of another person in his OR. Besides, in an illegal activity such as his, the protocols didn't really matter anyway.

Rathde was fully sedated, and Gthren checked on his heart rate and brain functions before making the incision. He opened up the misshapen foot, seeing that it had in fact been broken, and not once, but several times. The ossifications, hard nubbles over the improperly set breaks, had been broken themselves at least two other times. It was a sad state, even for a slave. Gthren didn't imagine it was done under anaesthetic, either. He saw that Hir'cyn had made the right decision; such bones would never have healed properly in a resetting. There were no less than forty years of damage in that foot by his estimate, and without the surgeries Gthren was about to perform, he would never run or Hunt again.

There were no laws on the mistreatment of slaves. Slaves were property, and in that regard, property could be used or misused in any way the owner saw fit. He half wondered if Hir'cyn was responsible, but he doubted it.

Gthren moved up to the knee, slicing through the skin. He carefully cut the muscles and tissue away, moving down to the bones. The connections around the ankle were far too delicate to risk damaging a donated foot; better to just replace the lower half of his leg. He pulled the tissue and muscle back, exposing the glistening bones. Green glimmered from the crevices between them, and Gthren carefully clamped the blood vessels before cutting them. The tendons he cut altogether, but the ligaments he gingerly peeled away with the help of a scalpel. The fine nerves were equally babied, carefully pulled back and arranged out of the way. Attaching them to the new limb would be the most problematic part of this procedure, but he would charge Hir'cyn accordingly.

He moved down a step, taking Rathde's leg in one hand and then nodding to his assistants to steady the patient. With a neat twist, he disarticulated the condyles at the knee, and with a sucking sound, the leg came free. A quick slice of the lower skin completely freed the leg of its owner, and it was laid into a slick tube of liquid nitrogen.

"Replacement," Gthren muttered, as he moved up and the replacement leg was removed from its cold bed, laid in line with the bare-ended stump. He checked Rathde's vitals again, constantly keeping an ear out for trouble. A slight bump as the eminence scraped a condyle didn't deter him; with an equally efficient motion, he articulated the new leg with the old knee. He brought in a thin tool, attaching ligaments to the new bones and lining them with fluoroapatite, and then lowered his electron camera to reattach the nerves.

**xXx**

The laboratories were vastly different than the buildings Anise had been to before. Here, at last, were the gleaming minarets, the spires that rent the sky. Three of them, tightly clustered, met at the base; between their curved exteriors lay an entrance into their sheltered shadow. The grounds around them were uncluttered, and the car drifted right up to the entrance. Escthta saw, to his dismay, that Thtarok's tall, lanky frame was silhouetted against the translucent doors. He was waiting.

Escthta emerged first, turning to help Anise clamber out. The doors slid open and Thtarok walked down the steps, smiling in his own sinister, toothy way. Anise took him in, his long legs, skinny ankles and frail chest. He wore the simplest of any costume she had yet seen; it was a simple dark brown, a sleeveless tunic that went to his knees, and a small token around his neck on a leather thong. He wore the cuffs around his wrists, as did many of the Hunters, but his lacked the ornamentation. His dreadlocks were held out of the way with one large strip of cloth, tied behind his shoulders.

"Escthta, a pleasure to see you." Thtarok turned to Anise and then smiled, that toothy, wide display that Anise had come to recognize. "And the human, H'chak-di," he purred. Escthta translated as the scientist spoke, and she nodded.

"Come with me, right this way," Thtarok lead them into the laboratories, talking as he went. "We have taken all the proper security measures to protect our benefactress. The whole complex has been cleared of personnel who don't have a high enough clearance to see you," he said directly to Anise, as if she would be able to instinctively grasp his words. Escthta found his speech distasteful; it was syrupy and thick and he didn't trust it.

They passed through the base of one pillar, into a triangular courtyard. "My laboratories are just across the park. We'll be meeting my partner for this experiment there, hand-picked by the Matriarch." Thtarok sounded half-pleased by the attention, but irritated at sharing the experiment. "We'll begin by taking down your vital statistics as of today and we'll monitor your changes as the experiment progresses."

Anise looked ahead; they were almost to the other spire, and there was a tall Hunter, as tall as Escthta, standing outside. She realized, as they neared, that this Hunter was female. She wore a fitted hide harness that covered her breasts. Anise suspected, from the way the thing was lashed together over her body, that it was as much for privacy as it was to get the damn things out of the way. Over this, she wore the same long brown tunic that Thtarok did, hers also belted at the waist. As they closed their distance, Thtarok gestured to the female and smiled.

"This is my assistant-"

"Da-kvar'di."

Thtarok blinked and then looked icily at Escthta. "I was not aware you had met before."

The giant female inclined her head. "Once before. We have a working acquaintance." She turned her ochre gaze on Anise, sizing her up. "And this is the human we'll be examining?"

"Her name is H'chak-di," offered Escthta.

Da-kvar'di's face soured. "We don't need to name it," she said in disgust.

"I gave her that name weeks ago." There was a challenge in Escthta's voice, but Da-kvar'di didn't rise to it. "Suit yourself."

Anise looked up at Escthta, confused by the exchange and able to tell from their tone of voice and body language that something was not quite right. As they moved into the building, she looked up at him. "Do you know her?"

"Only in passing." Escthta flicked his eyes to her. "We mated at this past Council, the same one where I was given the mission of bringing back a human female."

"Me."

"Yes."

"So she was your last partner?"

"….yes." Escthta was strangely discomfited by this line of questioning.

"Does that happen often?"

"Does what happen?"

"Mating at Councils."

Escthta smiled weakly. "It is the reason we have Councils. For one month, the females come and choose mates. Then they return to the broodworld to whelp. When the males are old enough, they are brought here. The females remain on the broodworld."

They had stopped walking, and Da-kvar'di and Thtarok were both looking at them, Thtarok with suspicion and Da'kvar-di with impatience. Escthta chattered apologetically, placing his hand on Anise's shoulder and pushing her forward.

They entered a large room, and Anise looked around unabashedly, surprised to find nothing entirely unfamiliar. The walls were beige and seamless, broken only by power conduits and translucent terminals that hummed with red lettering. Even the Hunters had their institutions and they were as soulless as any Earth could offer. She reflected on their similarities, remembering that the average Weyland-Yutani representative had seemed very much like the tall male scientist, thin and scholarly, but slick and cold with an impersonality she couldn't stomach.

The examination table in the room was large, obviously sized for a full-grown Hunter, and the metal restraint cuffs barely reached her arms and legs. When she put an arm through one, it slipped cleanly in and out, rendering them worthless. She looked at Escthta for guidance. Thtarok was perplexed; it was a simple enough problem to solve, if only tests were delayed until an examination table could be specially built. But he wanted to begin now! Thtarok paused for so long that Anise began to stare at him. Escthta sensed the imminent unraveling of Thtarok's control— the sick certainty he held in such high esteem was near failure. He was brilliant, Escthta realized, utterly unrivaled in his intellect, but it crippled him. His mind was unstable to the point that any stress might cause a fracture in his mask, a wrinkle in his caricature of himself. _Such was the way of any Hunter with a highly developed brain,_ he mused, ignoring a microscopic voice of warning at the back of his mind.

"I will restrain her, if it comes to that," Escthta offered.

Thtarok blinked and while the offer was not the best situation, it would do for the immediate future. He nodded, unsure how much of his discomfiture had been obvious, but deciding not to worry the issue more. What was more important was the human. She was lovely, small and white, her limbs like the spidery corals that grew in massive colonies off the near shore of the city and gave up their skeletons to the sea.

She was hauntingly familiar, and as he began to take measurements of her arms and shoulders and record every morsel of information, he became enslaved by her cooperation. She did not cringe from him, and that alone made him nearly powerless with delight. Oh, to have such a creature at his disposal, free to do anything and everything with her, with or without her skin on!

Da-kvar'di stepped up, snapping sterile gloves over her hands. "You'll have to wait outside." Thtarok's lust evaporated, killed by the giantess and her brusque nature.

"I will not leave her." Escthta's statement was met with a furious glare from Da-kvar'di.

"This is a scientific experiment. All data must be collected in controlled and precise procedures." Her voice became accusatory. "_You_ are not permitted."

"How do you expect her to understand your instructions when you've locked her translator out of the room?" Escthta's objection held truth, and it was with great reluctance that she locked only Thtarok and his data in an adjoining laboratory and returned to the table.

"Tell her to strip down."

Escthta turned to H'chak-di, whose face was openly confused.

"Remove your clothing," he said, closing his eyes as he felt her recoil from him.

"Not with you here."

"Would you like me to turn my back?" the suggestion was, to him, a silly one, but she nodded, almost shyly, and he reluctantly complied. The faintest hiss of fabric over smooth skin reached his ears, and he heard Da-kvar'di gasp.

"What is the matter?" he asked urgently, half-turning.

"They're animals. Look at the hair on her." He turned, seeing H'chak-di as he had seen her before, the dark thatch of curls between her legs, the small prickles of fuzz that covered her legs and peeked out from under her arms. She folded her arms in front of her breasts, lifting one knee to close her legs tightly, trying to hide her nudity. Her hairiness was less than that of the males, Escthta had noticed in the baths, but he assumed that was the way their species was differentiated.

Da-kvar'di was repulsed, but also embarrassed; even with her strength and skill, the race had to turn to naked animals like the one before her. She made another noise of disgust and then clenched her jaws and patted the table, as one summons an animal onto a surface.

H'chak-di balked, and she gave Escthta accusing looks. "You broke your promise."

"I never promised not to look. I only promised to turn around."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"If you're finished chatting," Da-kvar'di interrupted, "I would like to get on with this tasteless exercise." Escthta watched her for a moment, and then picked up her shift off the floor, handing it to her with his face averted. Anise smiled gently, taking it from him and tying the shirt's sleeves around her so that it covered her breasts. He spent the rest of the exam trying to lose the memory of the words he translated, the gasps of "Cold!" and the seething "Be still!" He kept his eyes elsewhere, respecting her rights, such as they were, to privacy and dignity.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn watched the medic close up Rathde's newly acquired leg. He had never bothered to ask how they got their parts; it was something one was better off not knowing. The Medic packed in the familiar blue gel in places where muscles had been damaged in the reattachment; such procedures were rarely perfect, but this one was well done. He added the blue gel as an extra boost to the slave's natural regeneration process. Whole parts of limbs took longer than simple fingers or feet; the recovery window for a surgery of this scale would take at least seven years.

During which time… what would happen, exactly? Gthren rarely saw his patients again, but whether it was because they did not dare be seen near his outfit or they were killed by the occasional attentive Hunter who noticed their surgery was unclear. Add in the anti-rejection drugs that the transplant required while the cells were being replaced during the body's natural processes, and it made a clear picture of illegal activity. But some druggists were sympathetic. He scrawled a prescription on a piece of holofilm, pressing his thumb to a sensitive pad on the base, and handed it to Hir'cyn.

"Fill this prescription only with the druggist in the South Quarter Spire. He is a supporter of mine and will keep things closely watched." Hir'cyn nodded, looking to Rathde.

Gthren followed his eyes. "The sedative should wear off in two hours, by which time the warming packs and sugar solutions will have that limb operational again." The Elder met his eyes as Gthren explained, a kind of respect that was little afforded a medic that ran a trade in body parts. If Gthren had known why Hir'cyn was repairing this slave, the Elder would have had instant access to an underground abolitionist movement. It warmed the cynical doctor's heart a little, and he could not help asking, "Why do this for a slave?"

"I have not owned a slave in a long time. I received this one as a… gift from a friend. I prefer them able-bodied."

**xXx**

The pelvic exam was only one of several indelicacies Anise was put through. She underwent tests for magnetism, pH, salinity, sugar levels, hormone identification; numerous phials of blood filled her rack in the chiller. The day seemed as if it would never end. Escthta stayed by her side, averting his eyes at hint of her flesh, though by the end of the day's tests, his patience with her tormentors had reached its end.

The sun, which had hung in the sky for what felt like far too long, finally began to sink into the hills beyond the City. On their way back to their quarters, Anise saw her first glimpse of the City at night. Thousands of windows incandesced with the sodium lamps that the Hunters favored, their glow a mockery of the titian sky that increasingly gave way to dusk. The waning sun shone strong against the spires, still blinding off the sides of the pyramids, painting the world in orange and red.

By the time they pressed the sumcom and stumbled into their quarters, H'chak-di was visibly weakened, her steps dragging and her shoulders hunched.

Escthta chanced a question. "Are you eating this evening?"

"I think I'd better," she said tiredly, although she felt like simply collapsing.

Escthta rang for the evening meal, listening to H'chak-di in the lavatory, and then the hand shower turning on.

Escthta fumbled with the catches on his shinguards, sliding them out of place and unfastening each cuff. His forearm guards came off as well and were set to the side with the rest of his armor. The wristblades glinted, his leg knife sliding half out of its sheath. He sighed, wondering if he would ever use them on humans again without seeing H'chak-di's accusing face. How his life had changed in the past months!

The shower finally shut off and his pricked ears caught the sound of her toweling off. The evening meal arrived, and she wandered in, her thin shift still clinging to wet spots on her skin. The meal went relatively quickly, though H'chak-di seemed to be falling asleep in the middle of her bites. Finally, Escthta took the paddle out of her hand.

"What! What?" she exclaimed, disturbed out of her drowsiness.

"You're not going to get any eating done like that."

"I'm sorry…" she began, but trailed off. He knelt down and picked her up, her weight lighter than many kills he had carried.

He carried her into the bed area, but the darkness was complete and he couldn't see her bed. Rather than risk dropping her off the side of her bed, he turned up the light, using his hand underneath her knees to brighten the room. As he did, something stirred.

He heard it, but he did not see it. His senses picked up immediately, and for once, he wished for thermal implants so that he might see his enemy. Hoping to surprise it again, he lowered the lights, but there was no sound. Gently, Escthta carried H'chak-di back into the common area, setting her down and closing the cuff with his wristblades on. The _ki'cti-pa_ shone, and he hoped it would not be too dull.

"What's wrong?" She was awake, and there was the note of uncertainty in her voice.

He saw no point in lying to her; the Matriarch had warned that there would be attempts on her life. "There is something in our room."

"Something? Not someone?"

"I am not sure yet."

It was then that she saw the blades and grim understanding filled her. She stood, getting out of his way, afraid that an extended fight would come out into the main room.

He went in, looking under their berths, in the corner, and in the bedding. There was nothing. He searched more thoroughly, checking the drawers and cabinets, but to no avail; the aggressor was gone. His brain was riding high on the threat of death, struggling to calm itself after the sudden peak in excitement. Her step came through the door and he turned, sighing as he saw her.

"Is- Is it gone?" The fear, so strange to his ears, made her voice quaver.

"It would appear to be, yes."

She didn't look convinced, and sat on her bed uneasily.

And then he found it again, the movement. The surge of the Hunt came again, and his brain began to move again into the Hunter's mindset. "H'chak-di, be still. Do not move unless I tell you to." She stiffened, her breathing tightening. "What is it?"

"I have found our intruder. It is under your pillow."

"Shit," she whispered. "Shit shit shit shit." She hardly dared to breathe, but the more she tried to quiet, the more excited she got, and the shorter and needier her breaths became. Adrenaline flooded into her blood, and it told her to run, to get far away, to escape, and fighting that urge took as much energy as it would have taken to give into it.

"Hush," he said, as he flexed his hand and the twin serrated blades slid out, a bright edge catching the light. Whimpers crept in on the ends of her breaths and she tried to suppress her panic, but it took hold of her, gripping her tightly until her breaths were fast and deep, but provided her no air.

Escthta used the edge of his blades to lift up the pillow and then tip it up off the end of the bed. The exposed creature hissed, large irises narrowing to a pinpoint. Its jointed back bristled with long spines, and with the weight of the pillow removed, they flexed up, a glistening drop of poison suspended at each tip. The animal seemed part reptile, part insect; its dorsal side plated, its ventral side covered with scaly skin. Escthta did not need to examine it more. Any animal here was placed here by someone and did not mean them well. He stooped down and picked up the pillow, gently placing it on top of the animal, ignoring its muffled hiss.

With a quick downward thrust, he stabbed into the pillow, the spreading black blood announcing the creature's death. He stabbed again, knowing that four cuts would separate the whole into pieces. And again he struck, the pillow becoming a black, ripped mess. The corpse was visible now, mutilated by the numerous strikes, and Anise felt moved to pity by its severed head.

"That's enough," she said, and then louder when he pulled his arm back for another blow. "Escthta!" He froze, looking at H'chak-di, blinking as if she had just appeared.

"It's dead."

"….yes. It is." He looked at the mess he had made of the bed, the animal's carcass and entrails spread out over the bed, and then at the black blood and pillow down that coated his wristblades. His mind had vanished for a moment and there had been just the kill, when all his thoughts and actions had been focused on eliminating the assassin. He stepped out to clean the blades, zoning out as the water in the bathroom washed them clean. He moved without purpose, putting them away with the rest of his armor.

A touch on his arm brought him out of his trance. He turned and looked at H'chak-di, seeing her whole and preserved. She looked shaken. "Was it really so dangerous?"

"I don't know what world it came from, H'chak-di. It could have done anything."

The realization hit him; it had been his first real test of his Protector duties, and he had taken care of the threat, saved the human.

H'chak-di was beginning to come down from the adrenaline. She began to shake, her brush with death taking hold of her. "I don't want to die," she blubbered, tears spilling over, running into her mouth. "I don't want to die. I don't want to die." She hovered on the edge of total breakdown, and then crouched on the floor, the litany disintegrating into inarticulate sobs. He took a step toward her, and then another, kneeling next to her as she bawled.

"H'chak-di," he began, sitting next to her on the floor cushions, "I will not let anyone or anything harm you. I swear it." He pulled her hair away from her splotchy face, lifting her chin up out of her cower, and brushed his hand over her forehead, smoothing away the wrinkles in her brow.

Something changed as he moved his hand over her head; time shuddered to a stop, and the small glint of light he saw in passing became a brilliant spectrum, passing through and around him. The light bent away, and then the world melted around them.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_Another cliffhanger! Another chapter of reasonable size! In less than a month! Might we have a pattern?_

_With this chapter, the story begins a headlong plunge toward what will be an upset in the storyline. Beginning now, I am going to have to think very carefully about how I want time and space arranged, and chapters may be farther apart. I am also under a heavier strain from my classes, with two mandatory field trips out-of-state in the next month or so, as well as exams and then finals coming up all too soon. _

_Thanks to you, the reader, for continuing to be so patient with my sporadic writing, and continuing to read. I love to read your reviews and see how you like the developments in each chapter.  
_

_Thanks also to Chocobo Goddess for being this chapter's beta. It's benefited much from her input as well as that of Drakonlily and Solain Rhyo. I love you guys :)_


	16. Form, Drift, Rhythm

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _See Author's notes at the end of this chapter. _

**xXx**

Escthta shaded his eyes against a yellow star; it shone brightly down on him, in a dry grassy field, and the heat felt good on his shoulders. But why here? What was he doing on a plain in broad daylight when he had last been on the floor of his quarters, consoling a human female in her grief?

"Papa!"

Escthta looked across a greening meadow that rolled away from him down a hillside. At the top of the rise, a tenacious acorn had rooted itself and thrust up branches high and proud, their leaves still new and bright, as green as his blood. Beneath the tree sat a young human female, little more than a suckling. She got to her feet, her thin arms and legs sticking out at odd angles, and ran down the hill. He followed her with his eyes, listening to her call again, "Papa!"

As the hill leveled out, its gentle gradient disappearing, it gave way to the packed dirt of a doorstep, the stones of a stoop, the shingles of a roof. The little house was small, tucked in behind the hill, surrounded by small saplings, each of them laced with the yellow-greening of spring, and larger trees that broke the winds curling over the grasses, their dark green branches thrusting up like the spires of his own City.

Escthta eased down the hill, knowing on some level that the humans could not see or hear him. The grass felt shorn under his toes, an unnatural shortness for one used to the wilds of jungles, but its softness was a pleasure. The back door was open, and a tall human male approached the threshold, thin sand-colored hair in his eyes, his face permanently squinting against the sun. "What is it? Have you found a special flower?"

"Yes, Papa," and she thrust a flower out at him, the thin, sprouting stalk and flowers like small crushes of cotton. Escthta stood near them, and the girl, barely up to his hip, grinned at the man. The man crouched down and took the flower, examining it carefully; rubbing the stem between his fingers, and then looking seriously at the leaves. Finally, he lifted the small blossoms to his nose and said, "Ah, this is a special flower!"

The little girl grinned. It was obvious that she knew the flower, knew it well, and was pretending ignorance. "Really? What kind of flower is it?"

"It is anise!" and the man gathered her up in his arms, resting her on his hip. The girl—Anise, he knew her now—giggled and hugged him close.

It was a moment that Escthta felt oddly guilty witnessing. The love that yautja mothers had for their offspring was fierce, and tenderness was rare. The kind of affection between a parent and child was something utterly unknown to him, who had no family. Yautja had no paternal ties of any kind, and only with limited success could they trace themselves through their mothers. Their culture was not one that initiated a lot of physical contact, but seeing how heavily they were clothed, he wondered if perhaps the humans compensated for their lack of communal living with physical touch. It could only be so, he thought as he watched the man, now fully aware he was her father, lean near her soft cheek and kiss it quickly.

The young Anise squealed and clambered to be let down, seeming to have just remembered something. The man let her down and then began to walk around the corner of the house. Escthta followed him and experienced the disconcerting sight of a small child running through him as the young Anise barreled after her father.

On the lee side of the house, a small glass enclosure stood with the door open. Her father was stepping inside it, and Anise walked in after him, pieces of wood in her hand. "Papa, look," she said, offering up a stick that was capped on one end by a strange flat finial and a small bit of wood. "Gaston has broken his nose," she said, and although he could not see who or what she was talking about, Escthta heard the sadness in her voice.

Her father knelt down, and Escthta watched him fit a splintered plane of wood onto a freshly broken surface on the finial, and Escthta saw it whole, recognizing it for what it was; an image of an animal, a mock-up of a beast of burden. The man's hands slid the wood around for a moment, but then he looked at Anise apologetically. "There are pieces missing, cherie. I can glue it back, but it will not fit perfectly."

"But his nose!"

"Do you want me to fix it or not?" Her father's gruff response was a rebuff against the whining that had begun, and Anise looked appropriately chastised. "Please fix him?"

"I will do what I can for Gaston, if you will help me water my plants."

Anise brightened instantly, although Escthta could not know that being asked to help her father work was one of the things she loved most.

They went into the enclosure, and Anise began to measure water in a cup, using a small dropper to add or remove water. She used the same amount of water for each bit of green that sprang up, making sure that no single seedling got more than it needed, or less than the others.

Even her tireless focus grew humdrum, and Escthta sought out her father, walking out of the building. The horizon grew hazy, as if its limits were reached, but the small shed alongside the greenhouse seemed solid enough, and it was there that Escthta caught the sound of whittling, the firm strokes of a knife cutting into wood. A step into the shed confirmed it, and he watched her father re-shape the hobby horse's nose, until it seemed less a stallion and more a pony. He sanded it quickly, blowing the dust away as he worked, and finally gouged out two new nostrils with a chisel. Escthta stood next to him as he appraised his work, and while it was not the charger it had been, it was a fine enough steed for a girl.

Her father set the horse to the side and Escthta watched the human rub his wrists, as if age lingered there. And then he stood, carrying the hobby horse out into the yard. Anise met him at the door, the watering cup empty in her hand. Her father knelt, holding out the wooden horse. Anise looked thrilled, but she looked closely at his nose, and her face fell.

"He's not the same."

"Did you think he would be?"

"I thought so," she said in a small voice, rubbing her thumb over the freshly exposed wood.

"When you pick a flower, it dies. Can you make it alive again?"

"No."

"When things break, we cannot put them back together exactly as they were. We can make them better, but they will never be the same." She hugged her father, though she was not satisfied with his answer. His large, rough hands smoothed over her small shoulders, and he tightened his arms around her. "I am not saying you shouldn't be sad Gaston broke. But if you cannot fix him exactly the way he was, does that mean you should stop loving him altogether?"

She shook her head vehemently.

"Good girl. If you remember that the different things are still the things you love, you will never be unhappy."

**xXx**

The meadows had changed, and Escthta caught immediately the feeling of time passed, of summers and winters come and gone. Trees grown in the blink of an eye spread branches over the small shed. He looked for Anise, but did not see her. He walked around the house, seeing that a walk and a small road now passed near the house. A black car had just pulled up, the dust from its tires continuing on out over the hill. Two men got out of the car; one was a large human, broad-shouldered and tall, almost six and a half feet, tanned and brown-haired. The other was pale, shifty-eyed, with slicked-back hair that matched the car. He was carrying a small case, and the two of them walked down the hill to the house together. The pale man looked uncomfortable, his leather shoes unsuited to the countryside.

"You're back!" said a familiar voice. Escthta turned, finding Anise, the one he knew, although her hair was longer. It was plaited on either side of her head, and she had the sleeves on her yellow dress rolled up. She approached the tall brunet, embracing him with an intimacy that he returned. The thin man smiled, although he looked as if he might faint. Anise pulled back from the man, and then smiled back. "Scott, you didn't say you'd be bringing company out here. I'm sorry," she said to the thin man, "I'm Anise Desorcy."

"Yes, I know your father's work well. He's done a lot of good with his work in plant proteins."

Anise's smile faded some. "Most of his work is academic now."

"A true loss to those of us at Weyland-Yutani."

"Weyland?" Anise looked at Scott, and her gaze was uncertain. Scott flashed a goofy smile and dropped a kiss on the top of Anise's head. "I just signed a contract with him."

"Oh."

"And he said, if I knew anyone that might need a job, they were looking for others."

"Oh, really?" Her reply was weak, and she smiled as faintly. "So why bring him here?"

Scott looked hurt. "I thought Jake might be interested in making some money. They're looking for good strong men."

"We've found a very rich carbauxite deposit on Craxan Prime," the suit said. He offered a business card, simple and clean, as Weyland-Yutani needed no introduction. The small type informed her that this was one Robert Shedway.

"Craxan? So far away?" The system was relatively new, the colony only three years old.

"We understand that it's difficult to leave Earth, but we feel that we can offer a competitive compensation package."

Scott leaned in and whispered something in her ear, and Anise's eyebrows flew up in surprise, and Escthta caught the smallest gasp, "So much?"

"We take care of our workers," said Mr. Shedway.

"I guess so," Anise mumbled.

"You said that there was another young man here?" Shedway said, eager to get out of the clean air.

"Yes, my brother," Anise started, but she was stopped by the icy stare of her father, who stood at the doorway of the small house.

"Who the hell is that?"

"Papa, he-"

"He looks like he's from Weyland."

"I represent the mineral exploration division of Weyland-Yutani," Shedway offered, unaware of his precarious position.

"Then get the hell off my land. I have no business with you, and neither does my family."

"Papa!"

"I mean it. Get off my land, and don't come back." The old man's eyes glittered fiercely, alive with an anger that rarely showed itself.

Shedway looked sickly at the outburst, and he inclined his head. "Thank you for your time," he said quickly, hurrying back up the hill.

Scott looked at Anise, then her father, and then turned, following Shedway and offering apologies. Anise looked back and forth between the man in the doorway, leaning heavily on the wooden doorframe and the man on the hill, Scott, tall and strong. Escthta felt her indecision, her torn allegiances. Mate or family? Love or Clan? He knew which she would choose, even before he saw her take the tentative step up the hill toward her lover. Escthta knew that the ring she bore on her left hand had come from this human, Scott, whom she had chosen over her father. He saw the door swing to on the small house, the older man eclipsed by solid oak planks. It closed with a heavy sound that turned the sunny countryside black.

**xXx**

Yugmnelsh stirred. As a center of activity for those species which could Speak, he often slept as the thoughts traveled; after all, his duty was not to regulate the content of such thoughts, but to ensure that the paths did not become so entangled as to stop Speech altogether. With his many arms, he was perfectly suited to the task of untangling the sticky webs of sentient thought that floated through his domain on a current of telepathy. He often turned his mind to other things while doing so, and he absentmindedly sorted out thoughtpaths as he watched the drama unfold in front of him.

Escthta, the yautja protégé, had joined his mind with the human's, their thoughts flowing back and forth like tides, some of her memories boiling to the surface in his brain, some of his memories bubbling up in hers. It was an intimate moment that Yugmnelsh, cynical and jaded as he was, was loath to disturb. The connection had been foreseen and expected, and in this particular case, engineered.

Part of this was his contribution to the work of Paya. A deity unto himself, Yugmnelsh need never have bothered with Paya's pet project, but the young yautja piqued his curiosity. Something had passed between the Hunter and Oggohlb that prompted the latter to awaken his latent Psionic power. Yugmnelsh was skeptical, but watched over the fledgling Psionic with more than a shade of interest.

The human's memories had proved to be tragic, almost ordinarily so. They bored Yugmnelsh with their regularity, for he had seen the thoughts of the most miserable creatures in existence, and humans and their brains held no mystery for him.

In truth, Escthta's reactions to her memories were more interesting than the memories themselves, but only slightly more so. Escthta was seeing into a different world, one where young were reared with love and a gentle hand, the polar opposite of his own upbringing on the Yautja broodworld. The confusion such an idea created, as well as the small sense of personal loss, the 'what might have been' that had slipped away, told volumes about the Psionic, and Yugmnelsh wondered if Paya might succeed after all.

**xXx**

"Okay. You be the _sabraa_, and I'll hunt you."

"But I was the _sabraa_ last time."

"I never caught you last time, so you're still the _sabraa_."

Escthta rolled his eyes and put his hands on his small hips, exasperated. "That's not fair."

"C'mon, Escthta, don't be difficult." Cthinde was trying out one of the phrases he had picked up from the older females, and Escthta smirked.

"Fine." Escthta crouched, his youngling body strangely bent between his knees and his arms tucked into his sides.

"You need to bend your back more."

"I can't, Cthinde."

"…I guess this will have to do." Cthinde launched himself at Escthta, his fist pulled back to land a blow on Escthta's temple. Escthta scuttled out of the way, flapping his elbows in an imitation of the large flightless bird. The only thing he lacked was the bird's vicious beak, but he was able to approximate that by jabbing Cthinde in the ribs with a finger.

"Gotcha."

"You're no fun, Escthta." Cthinde sulked where he sat, folding his arms over his chest.

"Now can I be the hunter?"

"No!" Cthinde got to his feet and then growled, "Again!"

Escthta rolled his eyes and dutifully crouched. Cthinde's attack came again, foretold by his battle cry, and Escthta moved out of the way again, pushing back into a somersault away from his opponent. Cthinde lunged for him, but found his hand buried in the loose sand where Escthta had been only moments ago. A pivot found Escthta only a few paces away, and Cthinde whooped as he moved to jump. The feint worked, Escthta dodged and found Cthinde rolling under his guard, planting a foot on his chest. He grunted, or rather, squawked in surprise, much like the _sabraa_ he aped, and fell on his rear.

"HA! Gotcha!"

Escthta rubbed his chest, grimacing. "Didn't have to kick me so hard."  
"If you were a real _sabraa_, you'd have pecked my eyes out by now." The birds were easily excitable, and any attack not calculated to kill risked blindness or disembowelment by the bird's sharp beak. Cthinde was practicing for his first hunt, and he had already picked out the _sabraa_ he wanted to kill. Many times he had insisted Escthta come look at it, but Escthta, being more survival-minded, had refused. Today, he had agreed at last, and they were going to strike out for the plains as the sun set. The _sabraa_ were diurnal, and settled for the night in their nests on the savannah as the sky burned orange.

Anise watched the young Escthta, things moving around and through her, as if she were in a holographic simulation. And yet, she could smell the dirt, the sweetness of drying grasses, other scents whose significance was lost to her. She allowed a small smile as she followed the pair, noticing how serious Escthta was, even in his childhood. His companion's name was provided for her, along with the understanding that Fang and Cthinde were the same person. It was her first time hearing another Hunter's voice, and she rather liked the rough-and-easy Cthinde, whose laidback nature reminded her of Jake.

She moved with them as they stalked through the forest, at times taking to the trees. They responded to cues that she could not perceive, even in an enhanced state. Their claws dug into trees when they vaulted off of heavy branches, and she saw the wood fragment, the blue reflection on the thick foliage, their dappled haunches in the darkening shadows of the trees. The clarity was dizzying.

The sky was a deepening purple, faintly red at its edge, when they reached the grasslands. They were totally silent, their steps making no noise. Cthinde's eyes seemed to glitter even in the dying light. Escthta's head was bent, and the coiled power in his legs made Anise tense herself. Anise felt uneasy watching them stalk their prey. At this age, their small frames gave no hint as to their eventual height; Cthinde only came up to Anise's shoulder. They were still only children, but already they were indoctrinated, schooled into Hunting by their society. She wondered for a moment what should happen if a child did not want to Hunt, but only for a moment; something told her that those children did not last long in this world.

A voice spoke in her head, but it was no voice she recognized. _The decision not to Hunt is a privilege of the honored and venerable. Those that live long enough to pursue education and idle pursuits are the best of the yautja race, and the only individuals capable of keeping our society from falling apart.  
_  
"But there is trouble, isn't there? Your society _is_ falling apart."

There was silence, from the voice and the scene before her as the children crept through the grasses.  
_  
Yes. It is._ It was a soft acknowledgment. _But then again, that is why you are here._

"Me? Why am I so important?"

A response never came, pre-empted by a howl of victory. Anise stared, in spite of herself, at the gory trophy Cthinde held aloft. His cry woke the other birds, and as the smell of blood filled their nostrils, they screeched back at him. It would be only a few seconds until the closest one gained its feet, and Cthinde whooped as he vaulted off the still-warm body of his target, running off into the woods. Escthta, who had begun to move as the bird's throat was cut, waited impatiently at the edge of the savannah, his fingers flexing, dancing from foot to foot and preparing to sprint.

"MOVE, Cthinde!" he bellowed, for he saw what Cthinde could not; the pack of _sabraa_ abandoning their fallen comrade and charging after him, flush with bloodlust, their long legs easily gaining on the young yautja. Cthinde gasped for air as he ran toward the break between forest and grassland, having been not quite prepared for the speed of a fully enraged _sabraa_. He slowed, his fatigue showing, and the snap of a beak directly behind him forced more power into his calves. He looked for his way up into the trees; he was almost there.

Another beak snapped, this one by his other ear- they were surrounding him! Escthta was straddled over a low branch, his hand outstretched to his exhausted friend. Cthinde flung the decapitated _sabraa's_ head at the one closest to him, and with a final lunge, caught Escthta's arm. Escthta grunted, and then whimpered as a muscle in his arm tore with Cthinde's full weight on it, but he did not let go, pulling Cthinde up onto the branch. It groaned under their weight, and they moved closer to the trunk and up into the tree, away from the snapping _sabraa_ below. The murderous birds launched themselves at the fleeing yautja, their beaks tearing large chunks of wood out of the lowest branch.

A few hundred yards away, Escthta had his good hand pressed over his now injured arm, leveling a sour look on Cthinde.

"What?" Cthinde puffed between breaths.

"You know what. This will take weeks to heal." Escthta's grip tightened over the muscle, and he seethed when it became painful.

"It was worth it," Cthinde replied, still out of breath.

"You didn't even keep the trophy," Escthta groused.

"Why would I? Who wants a filthy _sabraa_ trophy? Soon, I'll be hunting the Hard Meat."

"You're full of yourself," Escthta sulked.

"I'll hunt anything that moves," crowed Cthinde.

"You'll die for it, too," said Escthta. "Your timing sucks."

**xXx**

The scene changed in front of her, like the quick flip through television channels on Earth. Many times she saw Cthinde's face or the horrible long heads of the xenomorphs, before the image stabilized. It was a scene she knew, but from a very different perspective.

Fang- no, Cthinde- was there, and he turned to Escthta. "Are you sure this is the one you want?" Anise saw herself in a pathetic pile at their feet, gibbering with fear. She was almost ashamed, but even now the terror of that day bubbled up inside her freely.

Bagthak grunted. "It doesn't have any kind of sense at all." He jerked his head back toward the deeper tunnels. "The Hard Meat are already back there. Going back there unarmed is like inviting death." It was something Anise knew now, knew better than she had ever wanted to know, and she appreciated more the danger that she had been in. A few seconds later and the bugs would have killed her. A few seconds later and she might never have known about Jake.

"Maybe it has young." Anise smiled weakly at the conjecture. They wouldn't know that she was widowed, of course. There hadn't been enough time for thinking of a family.

"Humans live in family units and feel strong attachments to relatives. If there are relatives back there, it will try to get back to them." Yes, she thought. That's exactly what I was doing.

"So we should… do what, exactly?"

Bagthak rumbled, "Any relatives must be dead or hosting by now."

"You and I know that, but maybe it doesn't." _No,_ Anise thought, her mind blank of everything but response, _No, I didn't know. I had never imagined._

The next few moments blended together, as Escthta helped her up and extolled her intelligence to the other two Hunters, as one lays praise on an exceptionally well-behaved puppy. Then they were going down the corridor. She saw herself lean against the limestone walls, remembering the sick sobs, the nausea at Lucas's hollow corpse. And then, it was time. She would live her brother's death over again, but this time from inside the mind of his murderer.

Anise saw herself laid over her brother's lap, the blubbering nonsense that she had tried to convince herself with, and a wave of regret, loss, and pity washed over her. How pathetic she looked. How little she had known then. A new type of vision wiped over her eyes, and she clearly saw the alien, the bug that nestled inside her brother's abdomen, curling and uncurling its serpentine tail. Another surge of sorrow threatened to upset her shaky calm, but she swallowed down the sobs, continuing to watch the scene, as she had in many dreams since that night. She saw herself thrown out of the room, and remembered how she had gone sprawling in the hallway, contorting herself to avoid the destroyed facehugger and its acid that still foamed on the walls.

Instead of feeling the wind knocked out of her, she saw Escthta turn back to her brother. These parts she had seen, but there was, again, a clarity like that of the previous scene, a sharpness to every edge that seemed unreal. And this time, as she watched Escthta's huge clawed hand close her brother's eyes, a voice rose up out of nothing, and it was a voice she knew.

_There is not much time. I can feel it here in my chest. I don't know what you are, but you are here, and you are the only one left. In the name of anything you hold dear, take care of her._

It was Jake's voice, one she could barely remember anymore. In the months before, he had stopped talking, communicating through blinks and breathing. "It's a trick, it's a goddamn trick," she murmured, before screaming, "STOP FUCKING WITH ME! Stop it…" She crouched in place, and the scene faded as Escthta's cannon fired. The space around her was a soft sort of grey, and then it was no color at all, just a nothing that enveloped her.

"Why did you show me that? Why? What are you trying to do to me? Isn't it enough that he's dead? Isn't it enough that I came here? Why the fuck do you have to torture me?"

_Sometimes, the truth is hard to hear_. The first voice, the one that was neither Escthta's nor Jake's echoed in her head. _This is truth, as he remembers it. _A form materialized at the edge of her vision, but as she turned her head to look at it, it shifted to the edge of her vision again, nebulous. The presence danced about, there and not there, like smoke or haze. She could tell only that it was a Hunter, and not Escthta. _He does not show you this to torture you, or make you feel pain. Indeed, your brother's last words were a gift that only he could give._

"A gift…" she said quietly.

_From a chosen one, who may speak with the minds of others. Only through him have you heard the last of your brother's thoughts, and only with his guidance have you come through your ordeal unscathed, _the voice admonished her. _He is the only thing standing between you and certain death. If you wish to join your brother soon, by all means, continue to alienate him. But trust him, **trust **him, and he will be the force to bend the will of Paya herself. _

**xXx**

Anise came around only a few moments after Escthta, but he had already shaken off his disorientation.

"What was that?"

"I don't know." He rubbed his head with his palm, and then looked at her. "Are you okay?"

"A little queasy, but yeah, I'm fine." An awkward silence filled the gap, and then she smiled sadly, shaking her head. "Why didn't you just tell me what my brother said? It would have saved you so much grief."

"Would you have believed me?"

"….no, I suppose not."

Another pause, and this time Escthta broke the silence. "Did you ever see your father again after that day?"

"Yes, when we left for Craxan Prime the next week. He told me that if I ever left Weyland-Yutani, there would be a place for me on the farm. I never came back, and he died the next year."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Anise rubbed at a patch of rough skin on her ankle. "We all have to live with our regrets. Just gotta keep going, and not stop to think about who we've disappointed or why no one loves us." She flicked a flake of skin off the raised bone. "Sounds like a shitty way to live, actually."

She stared off into space, and Escthta watched her, finding no words that could refute her statement. "Sleep in my bed," he offered suddenly. She blinked and then nodded slowly. A good night's sleep was what she needed. Everything would look clearer in the morning, whether she wanted it to or not. Anise stepped into the bedchamber, climbed into his berth and laid down facing the wall. Escthta sat on her bed with the remnants of the pillow and the black blood of the lizard-thing and stared into the night.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Another chapter finally makes its way here. I wish it hadn't taken so long, but such is the nature of college; it sucks your time away in amounts you didn't think it could. However, I have completed a paper and finished a Powerpoint presentation, so I figured I would celebrate with a chapter._

_I agree with the reviewer that Escthta and Anise have really taken over this story. At its inception, Quality of Resonance was Cthinde's story; Escthta was only a side character, a Lancelot to Cthinde's Arthur. Since that time, the story has changed so drastically that it bears little resemblance (thankfully) to its original plot. I do not feel that Cthinde has much of a place in this storyline anymore. Which is why, at a certain juncture, he will get his own story to himself, without all the heavy-duty socio-political drama. I think he deserves that, and I plan to give it to him._

_Thanks to Drakonlily and Chocobo Goddess for their infinite patience._


	17. The Heart Asks Pleasure First

_See Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

The morning was dismally bright, and it gave Rathde a killer headache. He stirred, making to tuck his deformed foot in underneath his other foot as he slept. A club of flesh, it sometimes felt tingly if left in place too long, and his shattered bones scratched against one another painfully. He moved it gently, knowing the predictable stab of agony that was coming, had come every morning since it had been broken.

And it never came. At first he relaxed, wondering if the day off his feet might have done him the world of good. And then it came back to him. The new owner, Hir'cyn. The trip through the alleys. The medic. He moved his foot again, and then bent his ankle. He had an ankle.

Rathde sat bolt upright in bed, flinging back the sheets. The sutures were still clearly visible, the dappled spot pattern below his knee clearly not his own. He reached out and touched it, feeling the skin, and then he slid his hand down to the foot which had been merely a mass of broken bone and callus the day before. He had toes and claws and the bones and tendons were whole. He was bent over double at the waist when his clawed fingers drew lines on the bottom of his foot and he cried out at the sensation, so sudden and different. It was no pain, but barely pleasure.

"Glad to see that you're awake."

"Awake? Am I?" Rathde continued to smooth his palm over the strange perfection that suddenly appeared on his body. The skin- now his skin, he realized – tingled as his fingers swept over it, leaving nerves sizzling weakly in their wake.

"Yes." Hir'cyn's eyes flicked down to the sutured leg.

"Did you do this?" Rathde's voice was incredulous. The leg was new, the flesh of another yautja and a cardinal sin against the teachings of Paya. The thought of someone else's bones in his body disgusted him on an elemental level; it was the reclamation of a formerly useless limb, but at what cost? Was his soul in danger? His confusion was tempered with a sense of fear and awe. What sort of creature was this new master?

"We'll begin your education today," Hir'cyn said, waving the question aside like a persistent insect.

"Did you do this?" Rathde's voice was shrill.

"Of course, you'll have to learn your letters, but that shouldn't be too hard for someone like you-"

"Answer me!"

Hir'cyn lifted one eyebrow at Rathde and moved to sit in a chair opposite Rathde's berth. "Of course I did. I own you. I can do whatever I like with you."

Rathde was brought up short. He was still a slave, still secured in bondage, but he was no longer hobbled. He swung his feet- he had two!- out of the bed and stood up on them uneasily. His back ached as he stood up tall for the first time in nearly fifty years. His muscles, atrophied on one side, wanted to pull him back down into his slump, but he strained, pulling them as far as he dared, and forced himself to stand up straight.

"And, of course, some sort of physical rehabilitation will be required," murmured Hir'cyn.

"Fuck you and your rehabilitation."

Hir'cyn's eyes lit with fire. "Don't forget your place. I still own you."  
"No one owns me," sneered Rathde.

Hir'cyn moved across the room with surprising speed, his grey locks swinging as he got within inches of Rathde's face. "I'm afraid you're wrong. You see, that leg of yours represents a significant investment, one I intend to collect on."

Hir'cyn's hand clamped down on his shoulder, forcing the weakened Rathde down into the berth. "Now, Rathde, we can discuss the terms of this arrangement, since you seem so eager to test its limits."

Rathde was stunned silent, unable to absorb much more, but he nodded dumbly, listening to Hir'cyn as he explained what had happened in the operating room.

"So I do have someone else's leg?"

"That's correct."

"But Paya's teachings say-"

"I have Paya's blessing. Paya herself released you to my care."

Rathde frowned in disbelief; he had never seen the Matriarch or even heard of her comings and goings. Slaves were kept as stupid as possible, and it was no surprise that such a slave did not know of Paya, puppetmaster of the Council. A perfunctory explanation was in order, and after Hir'cyn had delivered it, Rathde was left feeling even more tiny and worthless.

"Why? Why take an interest in me?"

"Perhaps you do not remember the first time I met you." Hir'cyn looked away from the slave, focusing on a tapestry that hung in his quarters and bore the figure of Cetanu. "You prayed daily for death, and while that is an admirable wish," he acknowledged with a tilt of his head, "it was never your place to wish for it so soon."

He lifted a finger and pointed to the foreign foot on Rathde's body. "That leg was never meant to be broken or deformed. I don't know what you did that angered the Council, but you are out of their hands, and I will not tolerate a slave of mine being infirm."

Rathde didn't know whether to thank him or curse him. Self-loathing was a feeling that the yautja had gotten rather used to in the years since his punishment, but he somehow maintained a healthy sense of pride that had withstood the beatings and torture. Standing up straight hurt; it hurt bad, but it was a pain that Rathde welcomed. In the end, though feelings of disgust and hatred warred within him, it was a grudging thankfulness that won out over them both, and Rathde bowed his head. "Thank you."

"Hmph," Hir'cyn grunted. "Don't thank me yet."

**xXx**

Escthta lifted his head up from where it rested against the wall. Paya only knew how he'd managed to snatch a few moments of sleep, but it had happened, and he was thankful for them, in spite of his sore neck.

H'chak-di stirred some minutes later. She yawned and huddled herself further into the bedding, seeming smaller than usual. Her eyes opened and closed lazily and then she gave a sleepy smile. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning."

"How did you sleep?" But she immediately regretted the question. Escthta had a sour look on his face, brought on, no doubt, by his lack of sleep the night before.

She slid out of bed, scuffling her feet on the floor as she walked to the bathroom. Escthta heard her bare feet slapping on the stone, so much like that of a child. He unfolded his legs and stretched them before easing off the bed himself.

He keyed in a morning meal on the sumcom's pad, and then sat down heavily at the table. His neck was beginning to hurt more, and the more he moved it, the more he regretted sitting up; he might have preferred the entrails of the lizard-thing to this crick in his neck.

"So, what are we going to do about last night?" Her voice was uncertain, and she wrapped her arms around her bent knees as she sat.

"What about it?" Escthta lifted an eyebrow.

"I don't know. I feel like we should… talk. Or something."

"We don't have much to talk about. The visions spoke for themselves."

"But what happened, actually? Why did we see each other's minds? Why don't I know which memories of mine, or how many of them you saw? And who was the voice that talked to me?"  
"Voice?" Escthta frowned.

"Yeah. It wasn't your voice, but I had a conversation with it while watching you hunt."

Escthta was pensive, his brow creased with heavy lines. A chime notified them the meal had arrived, and after retrieving it, he sat down again. "What kind of conversation?"

"It said something about being able to choose not to Hunt."

Escthta chuckled darkly. "That's a ridiculous idea. We can't ignore the Hunt."

"Why? Why can't you?"

Escthta pushed his still half-full bowl away and folded his arms across his chest. At this distance, his icy discontent seemed less nuisance and more threat. "Why should I?"

"Because it's just senseless killing?"

Escthta's shoulders rolled forward, and he shook his head. "I can't expect you to understand, but the Hunt is not about slaughter."

Unable to give his feelings adequate focus, he made to pick up his breakfast again, but set it down again. "We were given the gift of the Hunt by Paya herself, and to squander that gift, to turn your back on Paya, is a grave mistake that even the stupidest of younglings does not make."

He struggled with the concepts, his words too weak to fully enfold the feelings involved. "The Hunt is both sports competition and spiritual exercise," he said, still unsatisfied with the words he finally put together. "It's about requiring the best of yourself, but on an elemental level. Many of us have very deep spiritual connections to Paya and Cetanu, and putting our lives on the line tests and strengthens those bonds. It is not unusual for yautja to fast while Hunting, to deepen their understanding of the universe."

He paused, taking a small sip of water, and then rested his elbows on the table, threading his fingers together. "I won't pretend that all of us or even half of us believe that. Mostly we learn the killing, the blood, and the exhilaration." He stared off into space, his eyes unfocusing as he saw past events, heard past voices. "They learn to thank Paya, but few learn why. They learn to insult and belittle their prey and each other." He smiled and then looked at H'chak-di, shaking his head.

"It's funny how _ooman_ becomes an insult, and yet a human skull brings great honor."

"Ooman?"

"Yes. A derisive name for your kind. I am sorry to have said it." Escthta sighed, looking down at his half-eaten bowl of breakfast.

Anise was quiet, and she thought of Earth, of the many countries and races, so hateful towards each other that they wouldn't dare be buried in the same acre, and all of them grouped neatly into one alien epithet. "Don't be sorry," she said quietly. "We call each other much worse than that."

**xXx**

The spires loomed tall on the horizon, and Anise picked them out easily as the car whirred silently through the streets. The last 36 hours seemed to have taken forever; it was an eon ago when she had stepped off a small ship into the fog and into a future that she hadn't asked for. A soft rain fell on the city, and beads of water clung to the car's shell, dancing and making trails along the sides before sliding out into the car's wake.

Escthta was still rather sour about his lack of sleep; his eyes seemed particularly dark in the light that filtered through the overcast sky. He wasn't pleased by the idea of seeing Thtarok either. Without knowing who had left the assassin creature in their room, he wasn't inclined to trust anyone, especially those who had intimate access to H'chak-di.

Da-kvar'di was waiting for them behind the sliding glass doors. "This way," she said curtly, and the two wet arrivals fell into step behind her. "Today, we will begin your testing," Da-kvar'di said. "Thtarok has prepared a solution he believes will illicit a response, formulated from your baseline information. We will administer it and then test your fluids every half hour." H'chak-di nodded as Escthta translated, and he placed her between himself and Da-kvar'di as they changed hallways. He realized this was a different route, to a different lab.

They ended up in another lab, this one cozier, with a human-sized table. Escthta looked at the steel tray set up with a syringe and a battery of test tubes, wincing inwardly. He counted at least twelve, which meant they would be here for some time.

**xXx**

The crack of wood split the air, followed by an unseemly yelp.

"Not _nain_, _nan_." Hir'cyn said calmly, ignoring the murderous glare Rathde shot at him. This was the fifth time he'd rapped Rathde's knuckles this morning. "_Thin-de gin, desinth'ja hma'nan-ku,_", he recited. _A moment to learn, a lifetime to perfect; _the proverb resonated with Hir'cyn, who had used the proverb as a mantra during his days as a young Blooded, when respect was hard to come by, and understanding harder still.

In this moment, Rathde could learn, or he could not learn, and it all rested on the stroke of a pen. If he practiced his letters and learned to read and write, doors would be opened for him, understanding gained, and at much less the heavy price Hir'cyn had paid. Only with repetition could a slave hope to reach literacy levels approaching the Elder's own. Hir'cyn realized, as he watched the younger slave rubbing his knuckles, that he was grooming a successor as much as he was freeing a slave.

Manumission, the freeing of slaves by a master's order, had never been expressly outlawed. For what could a slave do but work? Was it not far better that they remain cared for, fed, clothed and lodged in exchange for their work? What would freedom gain them but misery? Even now, Hir'cyn felt that some might simply stay where they were if given the chance to leave- why leave a sure thing for a future filled with uncertainty?

And yet, it was wrong, wrong to take away their right to choose their own lives. Hir'cyn had once given up control, bound in bracers and lead away to that rarest of dungeons, a yautja prison. Considered a worse fate than death, the prison was rarely used, so much so that the building had been locked when he arrived. The cell had been dusty, and he was left without industry, only his thoughts to accompany him. Yautja prisons needed no guards; occupants kept themselves prisoner in their own shame.

The three months in prison shaped him into a model citizen of any culture but the one he inhabited. He learned his letters in that clean, dusty cell, kept company by the lone other occupant of the prison, a prickly Blooded only a decade or so older than he, who was newly blinded in his right eye. Upon his release, he developed a keen interest in the deserted Library of Pthor'da.

"I've got it now," Rathde protested, and his hand, though shaky, wrote the proverb, making each letter with slow precision.

"Hmmph," Hir'cyn grunted. "_Great deeds require great risks_," he quoted, and Rathde wrote it out, his stylus making sloppy marks, but his letters were correct. Hir'cyn raised an eyebrow and then quoted again, "_Thta'thei-de 'uan h'dlak_." The short maxim on fear emerged from Rathde's fingers stiffly, but surely.

Hir'cyn picked up the holofilm, letting it bend over his hands. He looked at Rathde again, surprised to find a mixture of sullen hatred and a desire for approval. "Very good."

Rathde's face changed, a flicker of surprise running across it, and then he resumed sulking. Hir'cyn clicked his mandibles together amusedly. "So good, in fact, we can-"

And he stopped as movement caught his eye; the light above the sumcom was blinking. _A message? For him? _

Immediately wary, he picked up his tablet and keyed in the access code. It found and displayed two messages. The first, he saw, was from Escthta, but the second…

Rathde watched his master read the message on his holofilm. The characters were visible through the tablet, although he was not yet practiced enough to read backwards. Even with what little experience he had, he recognized the face of someone receiving solemn news. At first, Hir'cyn's mandibles relaxed, slowly, and then they twitched back into place, tightly shut. _So_, thought Rathde, _you'd rather not talk about it_. Indeed, Hir'cyn was quiet for several seconds, and after sitting down, for several minutes after that.

"Can you walk on that leg?" The question was unexpected, a soft invasion of silence.

Rathde blinked, and then stood, pulling his shoulder back into the painfully correct posture. His leg felt normal, except for a constant feeling of fuzziness. Funny how quickly he had thought of it as normal again. For decades he had only a deformed foot, callused on its edge and side from his limp, and now, only a day or so after the surgery, he'd begun to think of it as normal. He curled his toes, his nails scraping the floor, and then looked up.

"I can."

Hir'cyn grunted and then got to his feet. "Put away your writing. We're going out."

**xXx**

"She still has a fever." Da-kvar'di seemed irritated by the fever, not concerned with it.

"Of course she does. You've poisoned her."

"It was not poison," Da-kvar'di sniffed. "She is simply even more weak than I had anticipated."

"Even so, you have to bring her temperature down." Thtarok pulled the thermometer from underneath H'chak-di's arm, avoiding the eyes of her Protector.

"Mmmm, still too high," he mused out loud. "Pack her in ice and continue to sample her blood." The thin doctor took the rack of filled test tubes with him, the glass clinking softly as he moved. The door slid shut noiselessly behind him.

Escthta was nearly beside himself with worry. Newly invested with H'chak-di's presence, he was more aware than ever of her state of mind. His body even manifested their tenuous link with a rise in body temperature, a sympathetic response to her fever. He felt her fear hovering in the background, but also felt her focus, her eyes tightly closed and her attention directed inward as she shut out all thoughts but her breathing. It was rhythmic, a measured breath in and out, and it was only the rhythm, the predictability that she made on her own, that kept her from coming apart at the seams.

A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead into her hair, and Escthta closed his eyes briefly before opening them and fixing them on Da-kvar'di. "Where is the ice?"

"Hmm? Ice?" Da-kvar'di was puzzled. "What for?"

"To chill her down, keep her temperature normal."

Da-kvar'di's response was an offhanded point at a bin in the corner. Escthta shot her a sour look, and then strode over to it, finding it filled with small ice packs. He carried them over in an armload, and then began packing them around her neck and thighs. Here, the large arteries ran near the surface, and here, the ice might do the most to cool her boiling blood.

After his third trip, he was satisfied that she was sufficiently cooled. Da-kvar'di watched for a moment and then moved to a console, entering data and looking at H'chak-di's blood under a microscope, directing probes at the slide which contained it. Escthta frowned and then pulled a damp string of hair away from H'chak-di's cheek. Her breathing was still focused, but slower, and she smiled faintly, opening her eyes. "_A'san-tbi,_" she said.

The word was not hers; it was yautja. He nodded his head slowly, accepting the thanks she offered, but inwardly dumbstruck by her sudden use of his own language. Where had she learned that? Did he still dare underestimate her intelligence? No, he knew she might pick up their speech through his translations, but still; would she continue to surprise him with bits of his own culture? Was this related to the events of the night before? Had he taken in parts of human nature and incorporated them into himself? He tried to think of anything new, anything changed since last evening, but could come up with no new knowledge he had somehow obtained, no unexplained and sudden familiarity. He shook his head ever so slightly. Exactly how much had their minds shared?

**xXx**

Rathde walked upright, nearly as tall as Hir'cyn. He wore the long habit of a learned man to hide the scars on his new leg, though they were already beginning to heal. Now, more than ever, he was both grateful and impressed. The surgeon had taken pains enough to make sure that he would be sure-footed, with an even gait. He made an odd match with Hir'cyn, who was clothed in full Elder regalia, his cape, gathered and draped over his arm, a healthy scattering of rank rings in his hair, and his ornamental armor, the engraved and sculpted shoulder pieces and bracers that were worn only by those members of the Elder caste. Even the _ki'cti-pa_ had designs etched into its dual blades.

The City was beautiful in the afternoon, the spires and ziggurats mirrored by tall evergreens pruned into severe points and small bushes thick with foliage. Hir'cyn had been quiet during the ride in the car, and his somber mood persisted as they walked through the South Quarter.

Although the South Quarter had several spires, only the tallest was referred to as the South Quarter Spire. A massive work of metal and stone, it seemed to claw at the clouds with its bifurcated tips. Much of it was dedicated to housing the several thousand lower-caste yautja who kept up the city, and a significant remaining portion housed computer systems for the Quarter. Near the top and bottom, however, were small businesses; weapon-makers and artisans, as well as the druggist who would provide the rejection drugs Rathde needed.

Hir'cyn was garnering stares from some of the nearby yautja; his height and impressive physical, as well as social stature would be immediately obvious to anyone, and anyone who asked would have no problem figuring out an Elder had been here. It was no matter; Hir'cyn had brought along a set of broken wristblades in a pouch as an explanation should anyone dare question him.

They started into the spire. The lifts were straight ahead through the entrance, cylindrical sets of coppery doors with lights glowing softly above them. Hir'cyn walked quickly towards one, catching it as it landed and moving aside for its occupant to evacuate. The lower-caste yautja saw the Elder's cape and ranking ring and quickly ducked his head, moving away across the foyer. Rathde shuffled toward the lift, avoiding the questioning eyes of the other yautja and joining Hir'cyn in the lift.

"Why are we here?" Rathde asked when the doors were closed.

"Your leg does not come without price," Hir'cyn said shortly. "Because it is not yet your own flesh, your body stands a chance of rejecting it."

"Rejecting-"

"It will poison your blood and rot off," Hir'cyn growled. It wasn't wholly true, but it stopped the questioning; Rathde paled.

"That is why we are here," Hir'cyn said. "There is a druggist here who will provide us with drugs to stop rejection."

"How…. How long must I take them?"

"Until your body has replaced all the foreign muscle and bone in your new leg with cells of its own making." Hir'cyn paused. "Seven years."

"Seven years." Rathde huffed a small laugh. "Is that all?"

"That's all." The lift whined as it approached its stopping point. Hir'cyn straightened his shoulders as the door opened, stepping out and colliding heavily with another yautja. Hir'cyn's mandibles opened in a display of aggression, but he closed them quickly.

"Ren'da!"

The Councilman narrowed his eyes at Hir'cyn. "You use my name carelessly, Elder."

"My apologies, Liege. I did not expect to meet you here." Hir'cyn was stunned. What was a Council member doing here? What other services were provided on this level? A quick scan of the directory confirmed the druggist and several storerooms. Perhaps he had something in storage.

Ren'da lifted a hand, waving it away. Though he was not garbed as befitted his rank, he still wore the rings over his knuckles that an Arbiter wore. Ren'da had been an Arbiter before becoming a Councilman, and his influence with the law-keepers had proven legendary.

"I am making sure that everything is up to date in this quarter." He chuckled. "Boring, to be sure, but one of the things we do between Councils to keep the City running in perfect order." Ren'da at last noticed the figure accompanying Hir'cyn.

"What's this, Hir'cyn? A new slave?" There was a note of disapproval in his voice.

"Yes, I acquired him for a very good price. He's a hard worker." The silence grew increasingly uncomfortable- Hir'cyn hoped that Rathde would know his place and stay quiet.

Ren'da squinted at Rathde, tilting his head and clicking his mandibles together with curiosity. "I feel sure I have seen him somewhere before," he said quietly. Hir'cyn noticed his eyes directed at Rathde's feet, clearly visible, since the hem of his borrowed habit dusted his ankles. The skin tones were not quite matched, but the transplant was in shadow, so it might be overlooked.

"Perhaps so; I acquired him after this most recent Council," Hir'cyn lied smoothly. "Perhaps his previous owner kept him as an attendant."

"Perhaps," Ren'da said slowly, and then he inclined his head. "I must go."

Hir'cyn bowed his head. "Liege," he said, by way of dismissal, and the Councilman moved into the elevator they had just left.

Hir'cyn chattered with relief before turning to Rathde.

"I think we are safe. The slave he remembers had a useless foot. Doubtless he believes he is seeing things." Rathde nodded slowly, as if he did not quite believe him, but quickly shrugged off his discomfiture as the visit with the druggist went smoothly and found him in possession of drugs that would save his leg.

"This is not our only stop today," Hir'cyn said as they left.

"Oh?"

"Yes. We have one more place to visit."

The robot car that bore them out of the South Quarter turned to the northeast, toward that most deserted part of the City. Here, in the North Quarter, a small district remained deserted. Here the females dwelt during the Council, and they tolerated no interlopers. They transferred to a different robot car at the gates, the severe mother-statues baring teeth and brandishing claw. Rathde could still faintly smell the breeding musk of a thousand different females, and his body responded in spite of itself.

"Be careful with that," Hir'cyn admonished, although he struggled with and barely contained his own biological response to the scent-molecule propositions decoded by the olfactory organ in his mouth.

They pulled up at a small but ornate building. At this, the farthest point from City Center and the Council Hall, the Matriarch slept in the shadow of the hills that abutted the City. Small trees and groomed foliage lined the path up to the small steps. There was no door; its occupant received visitors at all hours. Hir'cyn approached slowly, and then stopped on the threshold. With one hand, he moved aside the curtains that provided shielding from the sun. Rathde stepped inside, and Hir'cyn motioned for him to sit on the cushions next to the doorway as he stepped over to a reclining figure on the couch.

The Matriarch rested easily, though her eyes had been on them since before they parted the curtains. Hir'cyn walked across the small plush room slowly and knelt at her side. "I did not think I would hear from you so soon," he said, his voice oddly strained. She held out a hand to him, and he took it, lifting his eyes to look at her.

"I have held off taking a consort because I foresaw your request," she replied simply. "Now that you are ready, I do not wish to prolong this any further."

"The Council? Do they know?"

"They will." She waved a hand absently. "They are of no concern to me anyway."

"And Paya?"

She nodded, but the answer was as unfathomable as the question had been, leaving Rathde puzzled. Hir'cyn pressed his forehead to the top of the Matriarch's hand. His offering of loyalty, the acceptance of the oath, pleased her; she chattered comfortably and then sat up.

"I see you have brought Rathde with you."

Rathde stiffened at the mention of his name. The Matriarch, the representation of Paya in this world, knew his name. He bowed his head deeply.

"You have already replaced his leg." She turned to Hir'cyn, looking at him with clear brown eyes. "Did you have much trouble?"

"Strangely, no. Should I have?"

"Kvar'ye has been known to kill such medics, based on Paya's teachings."

"Your teachings."

"Like many fanatics, he misinterprets them as he wishes." She smiled, curving her belled tusks. "He and his supporters will soon find themselves in an awkward position."

Hir'cyn chuckled softly. "Your clairvoyance disturbs me, Lady."  
"Why?" Her voice was playful, even young.

"I have always enjoyed not knowing what tomorrow might bring." He gently squeezed her hand and then asked, "Does being able to see the future ease your mind?"

The Matriarch's smile faded. "No, Hir'cyn, it does not." Her shoulders sagged with an invisible weight, and she sat down again. Hir'cyn seated himself on the couch, and the Matriarch put her head in his lap. The bond between the Matriarch and her Consort was strong already; his quick assumption of the oath and pledge of loyalty soothed any fears of misplaced trust. It was above scrutiny. Hir'cyn stroked her temple thoughtfully.

"I always thought that kind of certainty to be enviable," he murmured.

"It is more often a curse," she said quietly. "I know best of all the kind of chaos that will consume our world when I leave it, and that only greater chaos will follow when the Psionic fully awakens."

"Why not kill him?" Hir'cyn suggested softly. The Psionic's identity was unimportant; the Matriarch took precedence over anyone.

"The right thing to do is also the hard thing to do," she replied.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Hir'cyn's proverbs include a bastardized quote by Herodotus, a Chinese proverb, and a translation of a mantra from a famous sci-fi novel. (Can you figure out which one?) _

_With this chapter, I can conclusively say that Quality of Resonance has reached its halfway point, not including the Cthinde story that will be written. I also got a 3.3 this past semester, so a small personal victory over college has been achieved. With any luck, I'll be on track to begin Cthinde's story by at least the end of the summer._

_To the Reader, on the Nature of the Hunters: I have always considered the yautja to be a kind of therapsid animal, not quite mammal, but no longer reptile. They do not have scales for skin, as can clearly be observed in the ultimate canon, the first Predator movie. They have some mammalian characteristics, such as lactation and homeothermy, but are still largely reptilian in appearance. Perhaps the strongest evidence for mammalian homeothermy is the size of their brain case; reptiles simply don't have large brains for their body size. Hunters, however, have a huge brain case, and brains take constant temperature and power to run. _

_On Psionics: The humans have no psionic representatives in this story. It might be assumed that Escthta would have at least partially become Psionic even without Oggohlb's interference. The Bathyrian simply accelerated the process._

_EDIT, June 27, 2006: This chapter was edited to remove an embarassing editorial error pointed out by an astute reader. _


	18. Fear of Power

_See Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

"Very good!" Hir'cyn smiled at Rathde. The younger Hunter had finished his latest work in record time. This most recent was an illumination of Cetanu and his accompanying passage in ancient recorded myths. Given freedoms by Hir'cyn that would have otherwise been denied him, he had immersed himself in the culture provided by the ancient texts. He chose paper-and-ink calligraphy after mastering words on holofilm, and then moved on to small, iconic illumination in the old style, inspired by books in Hir'cyn's personal library. Hir'cyn was pleased with the slave's progress, although he considered him less a slave and more a companion.

Hir'cyn still had not shared his plan of freedom with the slave whose future he had acquired. Given him as a gift, Rathde had been at first angry and spiteful, but continued perseverance had produced an astounding student, loyal and eager. Hir'cyn felt that he could not have chosen a better subject for manumission, and yet he had a nagging feeling that Rathde would not welcome it. He was training the slave to better himself so that he might move freely through the social circles, advance in rank and make up for the time he had lost as a slave. And yet, though the ultimate goal was freedom, Hir'cyn hoped that Rathde would stay by his side, not as a piece of property, but as a respected friend. It was a friendship that he needed, Hir'cyn justified to himself. Especially now that he was the Matriarch's Consort.

The taking of a Consort was an ancient practice, from times long ago when the yautja were still warring amongst themselves. Only allowed among members of higher castes, Elders and Arbiters were permitted Consorts, as were any females. Typically a Consort was chosen from the same gender as the yautja who chose them, but for a female to choose a male Consort was not unheard of. Most importantly, the request for a Consort was a private matter between the Consort and his or her Benefactor. In his many years spent studying humans and their military, Hir'cyn had learned that humans also dealt with requests from the dying with equal seriousness. _Here,_ he thought, _is one place where we are undeniably the same_.

"Hir'cyn?" The question from Rathde interrupted his thoughts. The younger yautja stood, his face full of concern. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Hir'cyn waved a hand dismissively. The slave had no idea of Hir'cyn's recent responsibilities as Consort, nor would he understand. Paya was immortal to him, as she seemed to all her subjects. Her hair was still dark, her eyes remained sharp, her brain quick. But Hir'cyn knew now that such effects were largely due to the Goddess' root in the Matriarch. She was well over a thousand years old, and her body was tiring.

That was the unspoken truth about Consorts; they were companions for those nearing the end of their life. The yautja respected and honored Cetanu; they called upon him any number of times in their life, but to meet him that last time alone was simply too much to ask.

**xXx**

Escthta rose before H'chak-di did, as he had for the past three months, though their presence at Thtarok's lab had not been required the entire time. Yesterday the sumcom had alerted him to a message. Da-kvar'di had called for them yet again, cutting short their leisurely week.

Nearly seven months had passed since the Council had awarded Cthinde his ship, the _Zanna_. Three months after that, Escthta and Cthinde met, possibly for the last time.

**xXx**

"The hell is wrong with you?" Cthinde paced the room, throwing his hands around as he spoke. He was angry, as Escthta had expected. "I have been cooling my heels in orbit for weeks waiting for you to get back on my ship so we can start the _real_ Hunt."

Escthta was quiet; Cthinde was his friend, but he was not prepared for the information that full disclosure would bring. He would not want to know about Paya, or the endangerment of the species, nor would he want to think that a female, however powerful, ran his life. His pride might never recover. And yet Cthinde, more than anyone, deserved to know the truth. Embroiled in his own inner battle, Escthta did not reply to Cthinde's accusing tone.

"And then I get down here, finally, and find out you've been living in the Elder's quarters for a month, with this…human and you're holding regular meetings with the Council?" Cthinde's voice got shriller as he got angrier. "What the shit is going ON, Escthta? Why is this human here? Why is she more important than-"

"-than you?"

"Yes, than me." Cthinde's voice was hurt, and the pause he took didn't hide it. "We've always been friends, but now, I'm not so sure." The room was thick with the acrid smell of musk, although H'chak-di would never be able to decode its messages. Escthta sighed, looking at her, and then back at Cthinde. There was no way to make an apology that could fully account for his thoughtlessness. Every occasion there had been to rest, new demands were made of him. It wasn't that he'd forgotten Cthinde or their friendship, but he'd forgotten the passage of time.

Cthinde narrowed his eyes at the human and then at Escthta, a look of growing horror and disgust spreading over his face. "You're not fucking her, are you?"

Escthta growled a warning. "I most certainly am not!"

Cthinde held up his hands. "Just sayin'." His voice was softer, apologetic. "Used to be that the only thing that got you out of focus was the females." Cthinde shrugged, and then shook his head slowly. "I was kind of hoping you were, because then I could really get mad at you. Then I wouldn't have to be 'reasonable' and all the other stuff a Leader's supposed to be."

"What's going on?" Both Hunters looked at H'chak-di, who had opened her mouth timidly, raising her hand as a suckling would to gain attention.

Escthta nodded, but Cthinde rolled his eyes.

A brief explanation followed, and she smiled sadly. "So I'm the problem again."

"It's not like that-"

"Not like what?" Cthinde butted in. "How do you know what she's saying?"

"Not like she's the problem," Escthta clarified.

"But I am, aren't I? Without me, you'd be Hunting somewhere with your friend."

"I am satisfied with what I have," Escthta replied.

"You're satisfied with this?" Cthinde interrupted. Both human and Hunter turned to look at him.

"You're really okay with just sitting here and managing a human? No Hunts, no trophies, nothing. You're _okay_ with that?"

Escthta straightened his shoulders, but didn't reply immediately.

"Paya, you really are." Cthinde blinked, stunned, and then looked at the human. He was quiet, his mandibles clicking against each other occasionally. He studied her for a moment and then stepped across the room, standing in front of her.

"A long time ago, I would have pushed you aside as something not worth Hunting." He paused, struggling with words that seemed out of place in his mouth.

"That was a long time ago." He turned and then walked to the door, his shoulders hunched high and tense. The door slid open and he stepped over the threshold. He speared H'chak-di with a glare.

"When you're finished with him, send him back to reality."

**xXx**

It had not gone well. Escthta had attempted to explain, but Cthinde didn't listen, his mind hardened against anything Escthta could say. Finally, he'd simply left. Escthta was consumed with guilt, and remained morose for the rest of day, irrespective of H'chak-di's attempts to cheer him. In the months since then, tests had been run on H'chak-di, producing no less than five poisonings that had put her out of commission for at least a week each.

However, the tests had also reached their goal; the perfect combinations of hormones had produced an ovulation in H'chak-di, but Thtarok had not been satisfied, uncertain of the results. After an unexpected ovulation, he had returned to reformulate the hormone cocktail and see if it overrode H'chak-di's now apparent cycle. It did, and Thtarok had withdrawn to attempt to synthesize similar hormones for female yautja, a cocktail that would stimulate the body into producing an egg and making the overtures necessary to fertilize it. Escthta, meanwhile, had become an unfortunate bystander as the continually changing hormone levels in H'chak-di's blood wreaked havoc on her moods. She varied wildly on a daily basis, and Escthta was never quite sure what to expect.

This morning, her moods seemed to have vanished; she ate the morning meal quietly, asking about the weather and generally making polite conversation, but the words were hollow. Escthta felt her focus instead on the laboratories, not the chance of rain. _What would they ask of her this time? What else could they need from her?_ Her questions were desperate queries that he could not answer.

**xXx**

Rathde followed Hir'cyn into the car, settling into the seat across from him. His thigh still stung from Gthren's injection of localized immunoactivity drugs, though it had been several minutes. It was a concurrent course of treatment that had increased his recovery rate by nearly 33. The skin on the transplanted leg had been totally replaced with his own, right down to the pattern of his spots. His body remembered what it was like to have a functional leg, and it picked up right where it left off. His ankle and calf muscles had already responded, almost too well. His ankle in particular was stronger than it had ever been.

He had been with Hir'cyn for twelve weeks, and ten of those had included strange visits to a female on the northern edge of town. Rathde made a point of not actively listening to their conversations, and he knew there were times that Hir'cyn visited her when he wasn't with him. He could only guess that they did what males and females did together; the mating season hadn't had any effect on him in ages.

Hir'cyn nodded upwards at the building. "We're here."

The Library of Pthor'da, the last repository of ancient knowledge, rose tall above them. It was no match for the spires, but its exterior was deceiving; it was much more than the five-level building in front of them; a network of hallways connecting other vaults to the main building. The Librarians' dormitory was one of these buildings, a small two-level building behind the Library proper. A single Librarian was making his way from his quarters, and Rathde saw the habit, long and brown, much like the clothes he had worn after the surgery to hide his scars.

The scars were barely visible, and his own skin had replaced the donor's. Given free reign to choose his own garments by Hir'cyn, he had chosen a more elegant style than he would have before his enslavement. Over a more modern loincloth, he wore a plain wrap that was long in the back and belted around his waist; the hem hid the more visible inconsistencies on the back of his leg. His tress, rebraided by an exceptional groomer, shone with lacquer and hung just at his shoulders, a respectable length after the neglect of slavery.

Rather than decorate himself with skulls he had not earned, he went without, but for a few green and red-speckled stone beads on a leather thong around his neck. They had a satisfyingly heavy click to them. He was not without pride, and the few weeks he had spent doing physical training had improved his posture and upper body strength tremendously; he exposed both by wearing the old-style chest harness, an affection he had picked up from the younger Hunter Escthta. Finally, he covered old shackle scars with simple leather bands around his wrists, and he often checked them fitfully, to make sure the scars never showed. No matter how safe Hir'cyn believed them to be, Rathde could not quite trust the society which had bound him in chains in the first place.

The interior of the Library was a huge space, lit from above by a skylight on the roof, and centered five floors below it, a large stone sculpture of Pthor'da, no doubt done by one of the artisans in the South Quarter. The balconies were arranged close to the shaft of sunlight that fell at midday, the column of light only fifty feet wide. At this point, where the sun was high, the pale morning light lit the basalt statue, and the dark stone revealed silver and green flecks, crystalline minerals that had formed at temperatures higher than a plasma bolt. The boulder had been hauled from the caldera of the now-extinct volcano which dominated the mountains to the west.

Rathde was numb with awe. Grandeur there had been in the frescoes of the Great Hall, in the tales of mighty warriors, but here, there was only the stone yautja who protected the tales and stories, the histories and accounts. No friezes were needed here to recount battles; Pthor'da held out an open palm to the bound journals in his care, and let them do the speaking.

"It _is_ impressive," Hir'cyn murmured.

His voice bought Rathde back around to his senses. "I see now why you insisted I learn my letters," he said.

"Mmm," grunted Hir'cyn in acknowledgement. "Without literacy, you'd end up right where you were before, once you-" and then he stopped himself short.

"What?" Rathde asked absently, still taking in the Library.

"Nothing. Come with me."

Rathde followed Hir'cyn to the lifts, keeping his eyes straight forward, directed at Hir'cyn's beringed locks. The lift moved quietly to the fourth floor. As the door open, the smell of old paper turned his mouth dry. Hir'cyn nodded to a Librarian as he moved through and then turned into the stacks. Rathde did not nod, and felt his skin prickle when the Librarian shuffled out of the room. Hir'cyn did not seem to pay him any mind, and instead selected a book bound with a red spine; the green stitches that stitched the papers together were surely original, and Hir'cyn treated it as such, using one dull claw-tip to move the pages.

At last, he found what he was looking for, and he held it out to Rathde, his eyes suddenly intense, watchful. Rathde frowned and glanced behind him and through the shelves, looking for the Librarian, but he was nowhere to be found. He lowered his eyes and began to read.

"In the Fiftieth year of Ysrog'ku, the following tribute was paid to Ysrog'ku _Yct_, by Wi'sgu and the _Muan-Dtell_, Peoples of the Marsh: 163 _nok_ of cthert, 400 _dro_ of th'lin…" Rathde read on, accounting for the fabrics and spices, animals and ingots that the capitulating tribe had yielded to Ysrog'ku _Yct_, short for _Yu'dci'temuan_, conquerer. Ysrog'ku had no doubt been an honorable warrior, but this was a listing of payment, of favors bought with material goods.

He frowned and looked up at Hir'cyn. "Bribes?"

"Tribute. A payment to insure against future… unpleasantries," Hir'cyn said quietly. "This wall is full of accounts such as these, of battles won and lost, the fortunes that moved from Clan to Clan." Hir'cyn leaned in closer and then whispered conspiratorially, "They counted every animal, every _dro_ of marsh salt, every _nok_ of woven fabric, but there is one thing that is _not_ mentioned." Hir'cyn tapped the stiff paper with a nail. "Read it again," he urged, his voice strained. "What is it that you don't see? What is missing?"

Rathde frowned harder, looking over the accounts for anything he might have skipped.

"Slaves."

Hir'cyn and Rathde turned to face the speaker, a tall, grey-headed Elder with rings on his fingers.

"Ren'da." Hir'cyn masked his surprise and moved his arm across his chest, a fist over his heart; he felt it flutter and skip. "My Liege."

Rathde copied him, dipping his head over the book but keeping an eye on him, distrustful of the Councilman.

"You take a considerable interest in history, Elder." There was a calm surety in the Councilman's voice and it made Rathde's skin crawl.

"Too much interest," Ren'da murmured. He stood up from his casual lean against the end of the bookshelves, moving into the aisle with them.

Hir'cyn blinked, and Rathde stood stock still, and they waited for Ren'da to judge them on sight, as any Arbiter had the right to do, striking them down with a pointed finger. There would be no trial in the presence of their peers, no hearings from witnesses. Arbiters were judge, jury…and executioner.

"More appropriately, too loud an interest," he said, his voice lowered to a whisper. "Come with me. We must talk."

**xXx**

Da-kvar'di watched Thtarok pull the fluid up into the syringe with the plunger. A thump against the barrel, and he handed it to her, his face blank.

"I don't recommend using yourself as a test subject," he said again. His voice was filled with practiced concern.

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?"

"Yes. I do."

"I suppose you have summoned the Protector and his charge?" His voice was quiet, almost purposefully disinterested. Da-kvar'di paused.

"I have."

"But we have no success to show for it, no results." Oh, how carefully he calculated those words. They hit home.

"I'll make results." She lined the primed syringe up with a vein in her non-dominant arm. "If that sickly little human can take it, so can I."

Thtarok chuckled darkly. "My dear Lady, you don't give her enough credit."

"On the contrary, I give her too much." She slid the tip into her vein, and pushed the plunger slowly down. "Now, we just wait."

Thtarok was disappointed with Da-kvar'di's readiness to test the solution on herself; the mating musk would cloud his enjoyment of the human. However, if he was able to get clear of her before she produced it in quantity, he could simultaneously avoid the stranglehold of the mating musk, as well as fighting Escthta for the right to breed her, and a delectable fruit might fall into his hands unattended.

The door slid open as if on cue. H'chak-di climbed on to the table steadily, her mind already reinforced against whatever they would be doing. Her resolve awakened Thtarok's lust anew. She would withstand any torture he could put her to, enduring it silently, perhaps with only a small cry when it became too much. He would press her beyond her limits, testing that smooth white flesh with his knives until it gave. What if he dropped the knife and she picked it up? Crazed with fear, tears streaming down her blood-smeared face, she would hold it in her red-slippery hands and threaten him with it. And that would only drive him wilder.

**xXx**

Escthta caught the scientist's trailing thoughtpath as he entered the room; it fluttered freely, moving through the smaller lab like the scent of a dead thing. A simple glare toward the scientist cut it short. H'chak-di remained oblivious, and she looked up at him as she approached the table. "There's no tray."

"What?"

"No tray. There's no syringe, nothing." She sounded relieved, but a note of alarm had crept into her voice. She was right; the usual materials for administering fluids and taking samples; they were missing. It was not simply a case of a tray not being in place; the entire tray stand was gone, removed completely.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, Escthta." Da-kvar'di chattered pleasantly as she met them.

Escthta nodded slowly and then asked, "Where are the testing materials?"

Da-kvar'di looked at the human and then smirked. "Her usefulness is at an end. We have the hormones we need."

"We?"

"As a species." Da-kvar'di looked at H'chak-di disapprovingly and then clicked softly. "A pity that a human was needed to obtain them, but we have them, and she's no longer necessary."

"Have you tested them at all?" Escthta felt warning signals firing off in his head. Something wasn't right. Her confidence was oppressive, filling his mind until H'chak-di nearly disappeared. It wasn't only confidence, he realized.

Escthta narrowed his eyes. "You're testing it on yourself."

"Very perceptive, Escthta," she said in a dulcet tone. "I injected the solution into my blood just before you arrived." Her voice lowered and she moved closer. "I can't even smell it yet, but I'm sure you can."  
Escthta stepped back, his confusion momentarily blotting out her increasingly aggressive mating drive.

"But we… during Council…."

"You're correct," she said shortly. "We mated."

"Then you should be…"

"I was. For a few months." The answer was short, but behind the words, grief and insecurity reared their spectral heads. This was why she was so eager to find a 'cure' for the females. Hers was one of the miscarriages the Matriarch had mentioned. Escthta was blinded with the image of a very small thing in her huge hands, a blackening green lump cradled in her palms. Grief, rage and hatred surged up, threatening to engulf him. Da-kvar'di grieved for her lost child, angry at the universe for robbing her of motherhood. And then the hatred, reserved for H'chak-di, a weaker female who had never borne a child. The combination was toxic, and it knocked the breath out of him.

"Paya," he breathed. "That's why."

Da-kvar'di, unaware of his sudden insight into her mind, chattered smugly. "You have earned the Matriarch's trust, Escthta. You're now doubly worthy," she purred, inching closer. She was producing the mating scent in quantity. Whether it was artificially induced or not, her season was real, and a warm feeling awoke between his legs, roused by an ancient response he could not control.

"Escthta?" It was H'chak-di, her voice small, frightened. Escthta realized, even as the thickening haze of lust began to eclipse his mind, that he had not been able to see her thoughts for several minutes. His teeth were gritted tightly together, and he turned to look at her. The scent of estrus made slaves of males, who were soon unable to think of anything but extinguishing the lust that burned through their bodies. There was no way he would be able to hide his body's response, but he would simply have to explain it to her later.

"Get out, H'chak-di."

"Get out? But where-"

"The lab next door. Go. Now!" he growled. The last thing she needed was to be caught up in the violence of mating. And yet, he couldn't pretend that he was not also ashamed of being unable to break the hold the mating musk had on him. He would make it up to her somehow.

**xXx**

Anise stumbled into the lab next door, wincing as a violent thud sounded behind the door as it slid closed. One moment, it had been a calm day, and everyone had been level headed. Then all of a sudden, things were heading in a totally different direction and she was being shooed out because they were about to get down to business. Well, she wasn't jealous. Escthta was an adult; he could do whatever or whomever he liked. She sniffed delicately, ignoring the sporadic bangs and thuds as they beat the daylights out of each other. _If that's foreplay, they can keep it_, she thought, and then moved out into the lab, determined not to think about what was going on the next room over.

She turned to look at the room. It was plain, but about the same size as the one she'd just left. Thtarok, the tall, thin scientist was in here, looking through a stereo-microscope. A few words purled off in a steady stream before he looked up and went quiet.

"Hi," said Anise uneasily, lifting a hand and waving it gingerly.

He chattered at her inquisitively, his voice indistinct. She'd seen surprisingly little of him since the experiment began, though she'd gathered he was the head researcher. He had yellow eyes, unlike the amber-green of Escthta's, and she didn't like the way he looked at her.

"They said they'll only be a minute," she stammered with a jerk of her thumb behind her, before realizing that without Escthta, she had no way of understanding him. His chitters and clicks reminded her of when she had first heard Escthta speak; her guard slowly dropped.

He replied in their language, his words still much more foreign than she had hoped after nearly six months among them. Her command of their language was minimal at best; the hardest part was the requirement of body language and noises that she did not have the physiology to create.

A screech from the next room over and then a mighty crash beyond the door interrupted her thoughts. The scientist, being one of them, must know what was going on, much better than she did. Indeed, the clamor did not escape his notice, and he trilled softly before directing his yellow gaze back to her. As many humans do under the pressure of an intense study, she began to babble.

"I'm actually thinking that today's visit wasn't for me. She was just trying to get him here so she could… you know…." Anise's cheeks flushed; sex had been a non-issue for so long that she became embarrassed at the thought of it. But he, as head researcher, had been privy to all her records and examination data, hadn't he?

"Well, I guess I don't have much to hide from you, though, do I?" She laughed nervously. The tall yautja was still, eerily still, and he parroted her chuckle back at her, though his seemed cold and humorless by comparison.

"I mean, you've seen _everything_, right, so there's not much mystery here!" His watery eyes were fixed on her, his pupils fine black points in an otherwise pale yellow field. He took a step toward her.

"Although… we haven't really been introduced, have we? I mean, not formally…" She trailed off, stilling as he advanced on her. Unable to communicate and growing more and more wary of the situation, Anise simply decided to try what had worked with Cthinde.

Anise approached Thtarok, not noticing the violent trembling of his clenched fist. She reached up and shoved his shoulder, freezing at the gasp that wheezed forth from his small mouth. His mandibles were twitching, moving independently of each other, and he purred, the same cooing sound that Escthta made when he was pleased.

He did not return her gesture, though, as Cthinde had. Instead, his hands remained tightly clenched, his long black nails drawing blood from his palms. Electric green seeped between his knuckles, dripping on the floor into a small puddle. She looked from the blood to his face, so calm and transfixed, and then took a step back, and he stepped forward, moving into the space she vacated.

"I think…maybe I should see what Escthta is doing," she whispered, her voice failing. She tried to slide around him, get to the door, but he moved with her, putting himself between her and that door. His fist relaxed, and he reached forward with it, cupping her chin.

"Hey, don't-!" Her teeth clenched, and all her words stopped when his fingers tightened, pinching her lower jaw. He purred something in his language, his voice deepened with a tinge of madness. His fingers released her, smearing his blood up the side of her face and into her hair, festooning her with bright green threads of gore.

"What are you _doing_?" All pretense of normalcy was gone now, and the fear bubbled up in her, spilling over on her cheeks, cutting saline lines through the bloody smear on her cheek. He hummed soothingly at her, but the panic was on her now, fresh and raw, and it held her with a vicious grip.

"Don't come any closer," she whimpered, horror-struck. Her words went ignored, the scientist almost totally cutting off her escape. She had to go, move, now, or she would be trapped completely. A quick movement to the side, and he was there in front of her, his hand reaching out and clamping around her wrist, lifting her into the air.

Anise screamed blue murder, struggling against him. She beat at him with her other arm, punching him as hard as she could. Her feet flailed wildly, but kicks that connected with his knee and leg didn't bring him down. At last, she bit him, hard, ripping at his skin, hoping to tear whatever muscle held her fast. He shrieked, dropping her in a pile of legs and arms on the floor. Survival roared in her ears, pushing her to her feet. Something twisted itself and bent wrong, but she moved through it, ignoring the flash of pain that burst on the backs of her eyes. She just had to make it to the door.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _An update within two weeks. It's progress. The title of this chapter came from the soundtrack to "Shadow of the Colossus", as did the chapter A Shadow Coming Closer. I heartily recommend both the game and the soundtrack, the former an innovator in gameplay, the second a sweeping orchestral OST that will move you body and soul._

_Many thanks to Masurao, who has kept me company on the internets for the past few days as I struggled to move past 1500 words. Thanks and love also to Chocobo Goddess; companionship is sometimes the only thing which gives us enough courage to push on.  
_


	19. A Great and Noble Scheme

_See Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

Thtarok seethed with pain, his fingers clamped over the arm. Muscles had been torn, damaged, but it was not his dominant arm; he would be perfectly capable of resuming normal duties inside of a week. The human was dismally slow; she was only now getting to her feet.

This wasn't what he wanted. Where was the supple, pliant fear? Where were her screams, the babbling for mercy? Why did she fight him when he was obviously stronger, superior to her? Her courage and spirit both doused and awakened the fire of lust in him. On one level, she was not the easily scared human that he had skinned alive so many years ago. But on another, she was a fighter, one that did not accept death willingly or easily.

While the first cooled his lust for the fear he could carve into her as she died, the idea of her as a warrior stoked a different fire. He could engage her as a Hunter does a female, but this time, he need not fear the spurs or beatings which often posed a risk to a male's health. This time, the male had the upper hand. He could court her gently with a few light blows to the head, a minimal effort, and if she still resisted, his superior strength would see him to his goal. And Paya help her then.

She was moving past him; her leg twitched as she rose. Thtarok knew the injury; a slightly twisted ankle was painful, but the flush of fear kept her moving. She was nearly out of his grasp. Would he let her get away, to the door? If Escthta was still in Da-kvar'di's thrall, it would not matter. But if he was not? Better not to take the chance.

His hand flashed out and caught her by the hair, threading his fingers through it and pulling hard. She screamed, and it halted her progress; she hung from his uninjured hand, her own hands around his wrist, squeezing as hard as she could. Her eyes seeped, her face splotchy, and she was nothing like the alabaster-skinned doll he had beheld first, so many months ago. This female was alive, her red blood pumping through her fluttering four-chambered heart. When they were caught like this, they showed the most incredible range of emotions. Thtarok lifted her by her short, dark hair, so that her feet were barely touching the ground. She strained up on tiptoe to keep her hair from fully supporting her weight.

Thtarok had no intention of pulling her hair out; the fine hair was one of the more attractive things about human females. They left it wild and unbound; even their braids were primitive, unable to keep the locks tamed, like wild animals that were heavily furred. He eased his grip on her, letting her stand on her two feet. She whimpered something, some blubbering plea, and he found it pathetic. Where was her fight now? Why did she continue to change her colors, playing with him like some yautja female? The duplicity enraged him; how dare she tease him?

**xXx**

Thtarok began to calm down, letting some slack into her hair. Her scalp stung as if a thousand needles were being pressed into her skin. Anise was unprepared for the blow that came arcing from his left, his wounded arm used as a club. She tottered back, dazed, her vision blurring, and then another blow, from the right. She wobbled on her feet, swaying backwards. His claws sliced into her forehead, and blood spilled out in a steady stream. She was more stunned than anything else; she didn't scream or yell. Instead, she only wiped the blood out of her eyes and backed away from her attacker, staring at him dully.

He seemed to grow more furious as she looked at him. A growl became a roar, and he charged her, pinning her to the wall next to the door. Anise turned her head away from his face, so close and angry, his yellow eyes half-focused and watery. He rumbled something, his voice smooth and bladed, and she closed her eyes. His hand traced down her body, his palms hot to the touch, even through her clothes. She lost track of his hand, preferring to ignore where it was leading, wishing she was someplace else, anywhere but here. Oh, God, anywhere but here. He slid up underneath her shift, and he clawed at her ribs, ripping her flesh open across the bone, and when she screamed, she heard him trill, his macabre delight at her suffering painted all over his split face.

Her shift clung to the wounds when his hand crept elsewhere, red lines blooming through the thin fabric. If she fought him, she would die. If she didn't fight him, she would die. _Fight him, then!_ her mind cried, and she began to struggle, though her attempts were feeble at best; she was afraid, and he was so much stronger than she. After a few blows which he easily deflected, she lost her fight; he held both arms pinned above her head with his one good arm, and the other wandered freely over her without restraint, leaving smudges of green behind. The rivulets were drying, cracking on her skin, and she felt the blood stiffening in her eyebrows and on her arms.

The door suddenly began to creak, and the heat of his hand stilled. Thtarok dropped her as the door slid open. She landed in a small puddle of blood; was all of it really hers? Thtarok was suddenly occupied elsewhere, and she took the time to take stock of her injuries, thankful for the respite. A quick check confirmed a twisted ankle and scraped ribs, as well as her forehead wound. They stung even now, and moving the blood-stained shift from them made her hiss her breath inward.

The noise elicited a growl from the door. It was Escthta. He was none the worse for wear, with deep green furrows farmed into his legs, and similar scratches on his chest. He seeped his verdant ichor, but none of the wounds seemed too serious. His eyes were locked on her, and his expression darkened.

**xXx**

He saw the blood, red and horrible, under her shift. The wounds were not intended to be life-threatening- no, these were to be the first of many, a gory introduction to hours of torture. H'chak-di's eyes were glassy, distant; it was a condition he often saw in weaker animals that had suffered an initial blow. They gave up hope and simply sat back and let destiny work on them. He couldn't really blame her for it. Thtarok must be at least twice her weight and he would have brought considerable force to bear on her.

He did not have to look at Thtarok; the yautja fairly vibrated with lust and malevolence, ringed with pain. The green blood in H'chak-di's hair, and Paya help him, on her shift, could only belong to Thtarok. She had wounded him, however small, and it had spurred him on. It was a small fight, but one that she had tried hard to win.

It was only after a few seconds of study that the other parts of the attack, the pawing at her body and the threats of rape, came to light. The concept itself was known to him, but rape did not exist per se in the yautja world, since most females had no problems defending themselves. To take advantage of any female, regardless of her species, was an inexcusable act. Never had he been subject to fear or rage on anyone's behalf. Never had he allowed anger to take control of his body as he did now.

There were no claw-challenges, no pretenses toward an honorable fight. Escthta looked at Thtarok's hands, smeared with red, one arm with a small wound, and a strange light in his yellow eyes. Something broke loose in Escthta's mind; an occlusion which had previously bounded and contained some part of him bent and caved, and a new and complete understanding of his mind and its power issued forth as water from a spring. With this knowledge came a narrowness of his mind-vision, further eclipsed by a white-hot wrath which rendered him all but blind to H'chak-di's mental state. She was reduced to a small glimmer in the corner of his mind's eye as his power swelled unchecked.

The edge of H'chak-di's shift fluttered, though there were no gusts. The motion attracted Thtarok's eyes, and the lust surged forward, more prevalent than ever, and Escthta roared, a warning, though he had already begun to visit Thtarok's actions back upon him.

H'chak-di would later tell him that he had never moved, and Thtarok had somehow stumbled backward against a wall, but it was not the truth. Though his body stood still, his muscles bunching and relaxing, and his eyes half-rolled back into his head, Escthta's mind worked with new strength, new force against the scientist.

Escthta held him against a wall with one ephemeral hand; his physical body did not need to touch Thtarok to press him into the steel paneling. Escthta's arms were locked at his sides, yet he could feel the throat-skin of Thtarok moving under his fingers, the frenetic jerking of his neck column as he tried to open it against the pressure.

The air began to smell burnt, as after a lightning strike, but Escthta pressed further with his mental grip, enjoying the conflicting emotions playing out in Thtarok's brain, taking a strange sort of pleasure in seeing a torturer being subjected to his own bitter punishment. At once regretful, at another turn angry, Thtarok changed his thoughts rapidly, even as their disgusting brilliance began to expire. Against the brightness of Escthta's own mind-sparks and the fetid glow of Thtarok's fading thoughts, a smaller light winked out.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn and Rathde followed Ren'da without asking any questions, and although Hir'cyn made note of the corridors they passed through and turns they took, eventually even he became confused. The walls were undecorated, with no markers or friezes to record their trek down. They knew they were no longer above ground, for the lifts had been the first leg of their winding journey through the Library. After a stretch of time, the fallow lighting of the Library's lowest rooms yielded at last to pitch. With only the sound of Ren'da's footsteps to lead them, they trailed him through the darkness.

Neither gave thought to running, though both Hir'cyn and Rathde were sure that this was the end of their mortal days, to be decided by an unsympathetic Arbiter, or perhaps a small group of them. They were known at times to gather in small groups and dispatch Bad Bloods in deadly fights with the Bad Bloods at a terrible disadvantage. Although some questioned the honor of such practices, all agreed that the Bad Bloods were dishonorable and did not deserve life; one simply questioned the honor of a 'mock' challenge versus an outright execution. Allowing Bad Bloods to arm themselves, however weakly, relieved yautja society of their collective guilt, and made the battles between Bad Bloods and Arbiters both honorable and justifiable.

So why slaughter them in a small dark place away from crowds who loved to watch the Bad Bloods fall? Were they Bad Bloods now? Rathde and Hir'cyn's minds worked in tandem, each approaching the situation from different angles and trying to figure where Ren'da might be leading them and for what reason.

"Stay here." Ren'da, who must have been using thermal imaging implants, used his hand to push Rathde to the floor. Hir'cyn was dragged a few more feet, and then he, too, was instructed to stay still. Ren'da vanished.

Rathde remained seated, afraid to move for fear of falling into a pit that he could not see. All around him seemed to be smooth metal floor, and he could not find a wall within his grasp. "Hir'cyn," he began, "where do you think we are?" There was an echo, and from the sound of it, the space was large.

"I do not know..." His voice grew hushed. "I have never heard of such a place."  
"Is there a wall near you?"

Hir'cyn was quiet, and then he replied, "There's a curved wall here." He smoothed his hands over it, feeling the seams of a door that was closed and did not give when he pushed or commanded it to open. He gave up, cursing.

"How long will he keep us here?" Rathde sounded worried.

"Who knows? He's an Arbiter and a Councilman, and both ranks give him license to act as he pleases."

"You don't think he's acting alone, do you?" It was a statement, rather than a question. Hir'cyn felt slightly proud of the slave already beginning to think for himself.

"With an elaborate setup like this? No, I don't. But he may be working in accordance with or even with the blessing of the Council." Hir'cyn finally sat cross-legged, folding his cape around him and into his lap, resting his forearms on his knees. "He is the Council, as far as we're concerned."

"What can we do?"

"We can wait." Hir'cyn shrugged in the darkness, though Rathde would not be able to see it. Time lost meaning in the blackness; hours seemed to pass, but they could have been minutes. The passage weighed heavily on Hir'cyn, who was of the mind that every moment lost was one step closer to their death. Rathde was driven to extremes with his forced inaction; the sound of his claws tapping on the metal floor sometimes stopped, but it always returned.

Just when Rathde had been subjected to enough waiting, the floor shuddered, and the sound of heavy gearwork moving echoed in the chamber.

"We're moving," Hir'cyn said, stating the obvious with a raised voice over the grinding kiss of metal on metal. He held his hand against the wall, but he could feel no motion past his palm. The room itself moved, but up or down he could not tell. The gearwork ground for several minutes more, and then halted with a stentorian boom. The door near Hir'cyn shifted and opened. A Hunter passed through it, collecting Rathde and walking him to Hir'cyn, and then leading them both forward into a doorway they could not see.

At last, the winding hallways and corners were lit, but by sad lamps whose flames were weak. The low ceilings were scorched black by the smoke, but even the small albedo could not make the firelight gentle enough for Hir'cyn and Rathde's eyes. They winced and blinked, and slowly grew used to light again, and began to look around as they walked. The same featureless walls greeted them, punctuated with black smears of burnt oil on the walls and ceiling.

The hallway spilled out into an underground courtyard, and a small fountain sputtered weakly at its center. Doorways around its perimeter were dark and open mouths into nothingness, but one was lit brightly, several sodium lamps turned up beyond candlepower. As their eyes adjusted, the light even seemed dim, and the sodium lamps created sinister shadows, muted with their orange light.

The room was much larger than the doorway had suggested it would be. Ren'da was seated at a wooden table which looked as if it might collapse at any moment. He seemed ready to receive the visitors, although he did not look pleased. Two more figures stood to the side, hooded and cloaked. Of course, they would not want to reveal their identity; this whole ordeal smacked of intrigue.

"You have a slave, Hir'cyn," Ren'da began. "A slave that was gifted to you by the Matriarch herself." He looked up from a slip of holofilm, his rings catching the orange light and glinting like firebrands. "Is this true?"

"Yes, my Liege," Hir'cyn said, his mouth dry.

"And yet, you have taken pains to employ only servants before. This slave is the first slave you have ever owned."

"Yes, my Liege."

Rathde felt his heart flop around in his chest like a dead thing's foot. They were on to them. The whole thing was going to explode in their faces. Would his new leg be hacked off?

"And furthermore, you took this slave, who had been hobbled, to a medic in the West Quarter, and had his foot hacked off, and replaced with a mockery of Paya's beliefs, a limb which is not his own. Is this true?"

"…Yes, my Liege." Hir'cyn felt his very well developed instincts tell him to run, but his honor wouldn't stand for it. If this was the moment in which his 'Great Experiment' would come to light, then so be it. He would die honestly and honorably.

"I implore you, Elder Hir'cyn, for history is listening," Ren'da said solemnly, "why undertake such dangerous and patently illegal acts for a slave?"

"He is not a slave, my Liege."

Ren'da's eyes glinted. "What did you say?"

Hir'cyn hardened his own stare at Ren'da and then looked at Rathde. "I wish this man freed," he said, his voice clear and loud, and he cuffed Rathde across the cheek, stepping back from him.

It was earlier than the seven years he had envisioned, much earlier, but this was a serious situation. Ren'da's comments had jingled some warning bells in Hir'cyn's mind; this was an inquiry into Heretics were dealt with swiftly, and their property, including slaves, repossessed and distributed as the Arbiter saw fit. Some slaves were even killed, and the bodies of slaves were hardly treated with anything approaching deference. Regrettable as it was, Rathde was freed, and if necessary, he could claim complete ignorance. The manumission might be the last thing he ever did, for the torture that lay in wait for Bad Bloods was nearly indescribable. 'To send from his hand', the slap made the freedom binding and legal in front of no less than four witnesses.

Ren'da stood suddenly. "Hir'cyn, do you know what you're doing?"

"I'm freeing a creature once pitiable. The Council hobbled him as punishment." The fire was lit under Hir'cyn, and his voice rose with his newfound spark. "You said I acted against Paya's teachings. How could I, when Paya herself granted me leave, and you, your Council, having marred her work so carelessly in the first place! I am not the heretic here, Ren'da!" Hir'cyn finished his tirade with a roar, although it seemed too theatrical in retrospect. It was done, and he waited for the reaction.

Ren'da sat unblinking, watching Hir'cyn, whose chest rose and fell with excitement, and Rathde, who was still stunned. Free? He was free?

"Hir'cyn," began the Arbiter, "if you had but asked, an entire City might have helped you in your endeavor to free a slave. As it was, I had to find out through one of our informers." He lifted a hand, and one cloaked figure pulled back his cowl. The druggist from the South Quarter Spire. His eyes seemed shifty, distrustful. The other Hunter shifted on his feet, but remained cloaked.

Hir'cyn blinked. "What?"

The cloaked Hunter pulled back the cowl which obscured his features, exposing a graying head and solemn green eyes. "The idea of abolition is not new, Hir'cyn. It has many supporters," Ghanede said quietly.

**xXx**

Escthta realized instantly what the smallest light's disappearance meant. Reluctant as he was, he pulled himself away from Thtarok, willing his mental projections back into himself. Thtarok collapsed against the wall, throat bruised, but breathing. Escthta dismissed him quickly; he could take care of him later if need be.

H'chak-di had lost consciousness, but her bleeding had slowed from the pouring blood of a head wound to a slight seep of fluid. A gentle inquiry into her mind discovered her conscious self locked off, protecting herself from further pain as her body began to fully feel the injuries visited upon it. Reluctant to leave her, but knowing she needed medical attention, Escthta decided to take her with him, rather than risk leaving her with Thtarok. He lifted her carefully, maintaining his link with her and searching both her conscious and unconscious mind for changes in her condition. When he was satisfied that nothing was broken and she might be safely moved, he left Thtarok crumpled in a corner and went in search of a medic.

**xXx**

Rathde had taken the chair offered him; Hir'cyn remained standing, still a bit uncomfortable with sitting down.

"You were hardly discreet, Hir'cyn." Ren'da was both serious and amused at the same time.

"Acting on your own was foolish, and I have no doubt that Kvar'ye has his suspicions, if he does not know already." Ren'da said this very matter-of-factly, and Hir'cyn kicked himself for not being more attentive. He blamed it on the unusual nature of the situation, and his own surveillance skills being somewhat out of practice. A Hunt would take care of that.

"Kvar'ye is hardly interested in what I do."

"On the contrary, Hir'cyn, because you are attached to the Psionic, he is very interested in what you do."

"Psionic?" Psionics were rare; there had been only five in his entire lifespan. All were touted as being extremely dangerous. Arbiters and in some cases, the entire Council Hunted them down and dealt with them. The last Psionic had been about 350 years ago, one of three born inside a century. Hir'cyn wrinkled his brow, recalling his conversation with the Matriarch. She had made mention of a Psionic, but had not let on who the unfortunate creature was.

"Escthta is a Psionic. He 'spoke' with the Bathyrian during his fight at Council; we believe that fight triggered his psychic development."

"Why let him wander around unattended? I thought all Psionics were dangerous." Escthta, the Psionic. Suddenly a great deal of the events in the past few months made sense.

"Since it does not appear to be the kind of psionicity that was at work in natural-born Psionics, the Council has given him a sort of leash."

"Enough rope to hang himself, you mean." Hir'cyn had no problems cutting through the obfuscations.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Ghanede interjected. "He will either become dangerous enough to require intervention, or the effects of the Bathyrian may fade with time."

"It's been almost half a year. How long do you think you can call something temporary?" Hir'cyn demanded, but neither Ghanede nor Ren'da answered immediately.

"Other Hunters who received the same kind of wound from the Bathyrian during its capture," Ghanede explained, pointing to his temple, "complained of hearing voices for weeks; some died. Escthta received two strikes, one on each side, so he may have received a large dose of venom, enough to make the effects last longer."

"Or forever," Hir'cyn said.

"Or forever," Ghanede acknowledged. "It could also be genetic," he said, after a pause.

"Genetic? Psionics aren't allowed to breed," Hir'cyn countered.

"_Known_ Psionics aren't allowed to breed," Ren'da corrected him. "They can have negative telekinetic effects or worse on the female. Add in that second-generation Psionics are often more powerful than their parents, and it's perfectly understandable that they're forbidden to breed. But this assumes that we know beforehand which yautja are Psionic. If they have not been found out, they may breed before we are aware of them."

"And Escthta's father was Psionic?" Hir'cyn found this all a bit hard to believe. Parental records were spotty at best; most yautja traced themselves through their mother's line, if at all, and female Psionics didn't exist, with the exception of the Matriarch. Male Psionics were sometimes undetected, though few lived long enough to mate and pass on their mental power.

"It is not common knowledge, but his father was Thio-de." Hir'cyn recognized the name, and his face showed it, twisted with horror and awe. Even Rathde, who must have only been an Unblooded at the time of Thio-de's death, could not hide the terror which flashed across his face.

"So, if a son of Thio-de received venom which _increased_ his mental capacity…" Hir'cyn mused out loud.

"It could have serious consequences," Ghanede finished for him.

"That is one of the reasons we decided to approach you about your slave," Ren'da said finally. "If Escthta were involved, it would be enough for Kvar'ye to jump on and demand his removal. Seeing as how Escthta has no hand in the slave's 'miraculous' recovery, we're not obliged to continue to keep you." Ren'da said.

"You're not?" Hir'cyn was stunned, sure that after Escthta was cleared of involvement, he would still have to answer for the 'mutilation' of his slave.

Ren'da shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I do not personally agree with slavery, and any efforts you make to push it to the edges of our consciousness are welcome."

He stood, his cape dropping into place over his back, and then chittered amiably. "We must do this again, Hir'cyn."

"I can't say I look forward to it," Hir'cyn grumbled.

Ren'da and Ghanede chuckled. "Perhaps we could blindfold you next time," Ghanede offered.

Ren'da laughed, and the two of them stepped through the doorway, motioning for them to follow. The druggist, Rathde and Hir'cyn all rose, and the druggist parted company soon after. The hallways back were lit, though faintly, and the circular room where they had sat in darkness was exposed as a vast cylinder, a rotating elevator that accessed many levels. Ren'da and Ghanede seemed quite used to it, and they passed through to another doorway on the other side.

When they reached the lowest crypts of the Library, Ghanede went on ahead, and Ren'da indicated that Hir'cyn and Rathde should wait. "It will look bad if we all leave at the same time," he murmured. "I understand that you have other obligations elsewhere, Elder Hir'cyn," the note of familiarity gone, and replaced with polished politeness. "I urge you to keep to yourself everything I have told you, and avoid moving whenever possible; the more you move around, the more Kvar'ye will focus in on you, and that may make things difficult for Escthta."

"You sound as if you _want_ to protect him."

"I do." The admission was blunt, though whispered. "It is part of a promise I made to his father."

"A promise?"

"To protect him when I could, but let him make his own mistakes." Ren'da's voice was low, but strained. "He is destined for great things, or so his father told me; I have not the future-sight he did. I have done what I can for him, shielded him where I could. But if he goes much further in testing the Council's patience, he will be beyond my help."

Hir'cyn took a protective interest in his young friend, and he could not believe that all was lost if Ren'da could no longer help him. "What waits for him beyond that? Without your help, what will happen?"

Ren'da sighed softly, and then shook his head. "Execution, if Kvar'ye has any say in it."

**xXx**

Escthta could hardly believe his luck; a medic sent from the Matriarch had arrived as he stood indecisive in the hall. The female was shorter than he and bore the medic's mark on her dome. She was beholden to help the injured, and he held the human out to her. She took H'chak-di's condition in with a practiced eye, and simply carried her off, Escthta staying close behind. Escthta was no medic, and all he could do was trust her.

The smaller female bound H'chak-di's chest, salving her wounds with a gentle hand, and making sure the bandages were snug, but not tight; the Escthta was jittery as she worked, knowing that Thtarok got closer to consciousness with every moment, and once he was upright, he would want revenge. Escthta looked forward to it; he outweighed Thtarok, and might easily best him in a fight, if he was careful.

Perhaps what he worried about more was H'chak-di's state when she awoke. Would she blame him for abandoning her? Would she understand the singular drive that took control of a male's mind in the presence of the mating musk? She had not seen the smashed monitors and overturned apparatus in the other room, where he had again mated with Da-kvar'di, and she had again brushed him off as soon as coitus was finished. Her spurs had been brutal to him, leaving him with gashes similar to H'chak-di's, but he would survive. Males were made tough to survive the courtship- she was more important right now.

Perhaps the thing that haunted his mind more than his own wounds or H'chak-di's condition was the successfulness of the hormone cocktail that had induced heat in Da-kvar'di. The 'cure' had been found, and females might breed again any time they wished, ovulation stimulated by sex, and more sucklings born from more sex. It made sense. But if so, then Da-kvar'di was right—H'chak-di had outlived her usefulness. The information they had gotten from her hormones was invaluable, but the source was no longer necessary. What would they do with her now? With her role in the trial filled, would she choose to go back to a human-settled planet? Of course she would; the yautja were not her people, not her way, and as today's events proved, she was anything but safe here.

And yet, Escthta could not help but feel sad that his time with her might be near its end.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Sorry this chapter has taken so long; I have been working long hours lately, and this was a difficult chapter to write. Many times I find myself looking at two major plot points and saying, "But how do I get from here to there?" I have done what I can to bridge the gap and fill in some knowledge holes as well. _

_The next few chapters may also be long in coming, as I am drawing up plans for Cthinde's story. I have decided to take a leaf out of an existing AvP comic book, "Booty", and work with something similar for him. Bagthak will be playing a larger role in Cthinde's story, which may end up being named "Booty Call", simply because it's catchy and I like the word 'booty'._

_Thanks to Masurao for her version of Escthta from my garbage drawings; it's great to see him in the flesh like that. Thanks also to Sara for her companionship and general insanity; you're a LOL a minute. :)_


	20. A Wounded Thing Must Hide

_See Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

"The human is no longer useful." Thtarok's voice was still scratchy, his throat not completely recovered from the compressive forces Escthta had brought to bear on him. He was reluctant to give the whole story about why the Psionic had attacked him, and so far, the Council had simply accepted the attack as part of a Psionic's latent danger.

"I could have told you that, Thtarok." Kvar'ye was unimpressed. "I believe I made my feelings on the usefulness of human experiments obvious when we discussed the Psionic the first time."

"You hardly spoke at all that day!" Thtarok shot back.

"Have I ever been less than crystal clear, Thtarok?" Kvar'ye growled. "Humans are not worthy prey, sentient or no. They cannot match us in physical strength, cunning or intelligence. They're dumb animals." He threw his hand out to the side, gesturing to an invisible example. "Look at how they flock to new worlds when they know the _kainde amedha_ have already established hives on the surface." He flicked his hand, shooing the idea away. "The worthy prey among them are few and far between, hardly worth bothering with."

"We are not all as privileged as you are, Kvar'ye," Noskor said amusedly, his clouded eye leveled on the hulking yautja. "The _tsavir_ and _weyk_ are simply too challenging for the rest of us." The compliment had the air of an insult; it might have been hidden in there somewhere, but Kvar'ye was not nimble enough to pick it out. The _tsavir_ and _weyk_ were both deadly adversaries and the skulls of the juvenile _tsavir_ alone were valuable beyond measure. Kvar'ye possessed two.

The _weyk_, however, was the large predator of their own world, the only hunter more fearsome than themselves. The increase of active _weyk_ had been one of the driving forces behind the construction of the City so many centuries ago. Since the walls were completed, the _weyk_ had all but vanished from the yautja consciousness, although their size and ferocity were told in the friezes that lined the entrance to the Great Hall the biannual Council convened in. A few yautja went on Hunts outside the City walls, including Kvar'ye, but most were content to Hunt on other worlds and return to this one only when the Council required it.

"This is getting nowhere," Ren'da interjected. "The important part is to decide what to do about him."

Kvar'ye shrugged. "You're the Arbiter, you know what to do with rogue yautja."

Ghanede lifted a cautionary finger. "But he hasn't actually done anything wrong."

"He nearly killed me!" Thtarok hissed.

"But it was not unprovoked," Ghanede countered. "The Matriarch charged him with the human's protection. We knew that when they came out of that room months ago," he said, pointing at the closed chambers of the Matriarch. "Since she had not released him, he was completing the task he was assigned."

"When will his task be up? When will she be gone?" Bruyaun was nervous as usual, always fearful for his position in the Council. His fat hands crisped together anxiously.

"Thtarok tells us her role in experiments is completed," Tjat'le said, speaking for the first time, acknowledging the scientist's previous statement. His silence was unusual; the boisterous Tjat'le usually enjoyed a good fight, but he was quiet these days. Whatever had weighted his mind, it weighted the Council as well, and Bruyaun's fidgeting was quieted by the gravity of the statement.

"Then she's gone?" he asked hopefully.

Tjat'le leaned back in his chair. "It is up to the Matriarch to release her. The human requested travel to any planet she chose, and we will abide by that."

**xXx**

"How are you feeling?" Escthta watched H'chak-di's eyes open. She had been awake many times, but there was alertness in her eyes, a restlessness that wanted activity. It had been nearly a week since the attack, since the mating, and the sex and blood was still vivid in his mind's eye. There had been no call from the Council, no summons to a trial; no contact came from Da-kvar'di either. He did not dare assume he was safe from prosecution, but he hoped he might be reasonably safe from another mating.

H'chak-di had recovered amazingly well; yautja medicine, though far from optimal, had proven itself invaluable in her treatment, and the edges of the scratches on her ribs were already beginning to turn that new-pink of human scar tissue. The scratches themselves were not so bad, not compared to the deep furrows on his leg that Da-kvar'di had carved with her spurs. Those, too, were scarring over, his own accelerated healing rate plugging the canyons in his muscles with new material, new fibers, and new nerves.

"I know it wasn't your fault," she said.

"You didn't then. It was a betrayal."

"Maybe. But I don't hold any grudges."

"Even when I allowed you to come to harm? Even when you might have been killed?"

She shrugged easily. "But I wasn't."

"But you might have."

"But. I wasn't." She grinned. "No blood, no foul."

The idiom was lost on Escthta. "But you did bleed. Quite a lot."

"Head injuries always bleed like that." She rubbed the bandage on top of the set of claw-marks, which were stitched closed. It itched like mad now that the skin was beginning to close.

"So, was it good?"

Escthta blinked and then coughed roughly. "That's not your concern."  
"That good, huh?" She smiled and then it faded. She jerked her chin at the sumcom, lit with a request for entry. "We have company."

Hir'cyn and Rathde stood on the other side of the door, and they stepped in quietly. The younger yautja gave H'chak-di a cool look, but then looked at Escthta.

"Hir'cyn. I haven't seen you in a while," Escthta greeted the Elder warmly.

"There are several reasons for that," he replied. They clasped forearms and shook each other heartily, and then Hir'cyn took in Escthta's injuries. "Only a female's spurs leave those kinds of wounds, Escthta," he smirked. Escthta's mandibles curved in a kind of embarrassed look, and he brushed off the comment. Hir'cyn then saw that H'chak-di was bandaged as well, and frowned.

"She is injured? What's happened?" His tone bespoke his concern, but it was not only for H'chak-di, as Escthta might have guessed. Escthta related the whole tale, including Thtarok's bizarre behavior and his own ability to press him against the wall using only the power of his mind. Hir'cyn's expression grew more and more serious, and he looked at the human, resting his hand on her shoulder before looking to Escthta.

"With the experiment over, she's technically Thtarok's to do with as he pleases unless the Matriarch says otherwise."

"She's not just a test subject. We're connected." Escthta tapped his temple. "Here."

Hir'cyn sighed and then sat on Escthta's bed, looking across the walkway to them. His brows were heavy, his voice weary. "You know what you are, then."

"I don't care what I am or what went on. I know that H'chak-di is safe, and I haven't really gone much beyond that." He paused. "I know the word for yautja like me is Psionic, but everyone seems to have this surge of fear when that word is said; I have never explored further."

Hir'cyn steepled his hands and then clapped them together. He couldn't tell him too much, especially when warned against it by Ren'da. But Escthta had asked, and most of it was public knowledge, so he could allow some discussion.

"A Psionic is someone with the power to do things with their mind. Sometimes it is simply feeling what others feel, or hearing what others are thinking. These are simple things for a Psionic to do, so I've heard. Some Psionics can do more than just mind-read. Some can speak with their minds directly into the minds of others. Others can move things without touching them." His voice had taken on a hushed quality, as if he was telling stories to frighten young sucklings.

"So why the fear?"

"The upper limit of such abilities is not known. At least one Psionic could make projectiles with his mind. Not just pick things up and throw them," he said, heading off the question before it could leave Escthta's mouth. "These are missiles created with their mind. They leave no mark, no holes, no blood. They are fragments of the user's will, and if the Psionic is bent on murder, then the yautja hit with such a fragment will die."

"It's happened before, hasn't it?" Escthta's voice was oddly flat.

"That and worse. Thio-de was the third in a group of three Psionics about 324 years ago." The fact was out, naked and hanging in the air like a body. Surely he would realize it, connect the points and learn his parentage. But if he knew, Escthta's face did not change, nor did he speak.

"Thio-de," Hir'cyn continued, "was an honored Warrior, but a rival poisoned the Council's mind against him. He was accused of everything from cannibalism to sex with humans." Hir'cyn sighed, his eyes flicking to H'chak-di, suddenly embarrassed to admit that she was on the same level as consuming the flesh of one of their own. He shook the thought away and continued, "What his rival didn't know was that the truth was far easier to use against him."

"Near the end of the Council, he was stripped of rank for these supposed crimes, although no one ever found any evidence against him. On the last day, as Leaderships were awarded, he killed fifty yautja with his mind alone." Hir'cyn gathered his thoughts and put them into words. "Some of them were turned inside out, others liquefied inside their skins." Hir'cyn remembered the panic that had briefly seized the Great Hall, the shouts and screams of yautja as they found their comrades turned to misshapen bags of fluid, the indignation at the attack, and finally, the fury that seized them until they found the culprit.

Escthta had closed his eyes, the images that broadcast themselves from Hir'cyn's mind too clear, too bold for him to stand. "They never found all the pieces of him after they ripped him apart." He huffled softly, staring at the floor. "And the body was burned." Hir'cyn nodded slowly, knowing the information had been pulled from his own memories, the sight of Thio-de's shattered skull, a bloody bolt, and the crowing of yautja vindicated in murder. It was nothing less than the sentence he would have received at the hands of an Arbiter, but even that might be too cruel for an Arbiter to orchestrate.

However deserved, since Thio-de was murdered without challenge or trial, his murderers became Bad Bloods. Distasteful as it was, laws on the matter were absolute, and the Matriarch would grant the murderers no shelter from their actions. Fifteen more yautja were tried, convicted and summarily executed. There had been but one execution since; the populace did not support dishonorable death. Escthta shook his head slowly, the information coming from Hir'cyn's own mind as freely as he might have his own thoughts. When he attempted to find out more, he found the way blocked, and decided not to push the issue; Hir'cyn was apparently already at risk even sharing the information with him.

"You have news of your own," Escthta began.

"Yes."

Escthta frowned, but even Rathde's mind was not open to him. As it was, he waited for Hir'cyn to share the news with him.

**xXx**

"What should we do with him?"

"We kill him, of course. People won't stand for a Psionic running around loose. We should have killed him in the first place," Kvar'ye spat.

Bruyaun nodded hastily in agreement. "We don't know what he could do," he said, anxious and fearful.

Thtarok seethed quietly, stewing in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.

"He _is_ dangerous," Ren'da started. "But I don't think killing him is the answer."

"And why not?" Tjat'le pressed his forefinger to his temple, leaning his head on his hand. The whole discussion was getting to him and he was growing more bored and depressed about the whole business. "I have three votes for death. Explain to me why mine should not be the fourth."

Tjat'le's eyes were clear, direct, and Ren'da knew he had to make his case well.

"There are multiple reasons. He seems to be a favorite of the Matriarch; I do not envy the yautja who earns her displeasure." His grey head seemed almost white in the sunlight that streamed from the skylight. He rested back in the chair, and he curled his hands around the chair's arms, stroking them thoughtfully. "You have all seen the rings, haven't you? The ones around his tusks? It's a divine gift not awarded in centuries, the Gift of Tongues; proof that she favors him over all others."

Noskor closed his eyes, bad and good, nodding in agreement.

"But she is weakening," Kvar'ye said, leaning onto the table and pointing a finger at Ren'da. The silence was thick, and Kvar'ye satisfied the curious quiet. "My spies have seen the Elder Hir'cyn making frequent visits to her living quarters."

"That means nothing," Noskor began.

"Taken along with her refusal to appear before us to discuss matters of government? Does she fear we will see her in an aged state?"

The Matriarch, as a vessel of holy power, did not visibly age. So long as the Goddess remained rooted in the Matriarch's body, no wrinkle, nor gray hair, nor ague might trouble her. But as the body began to reach its limits, even the power of the Goddess must seek a new container. When the Goddess left the Matriarch to seek a new avatar, the Matriarch would age rapidly, and die within months. The new seat of the Goddess, a female selected by divine providence, would become the new Matriarch.

"If Hir'cyn is her Consort, and I'm not saying he is, but _if_ he is, then why bother not upsetting her?" Kvar'ye tapped his claws on the tabletop and the noise grated on Ren'da's nerves. "She'll be dead in a while anyway."

"Gods do not forget slights against them," Ghanede warned. "Do you think the new Matriarch will not have Paya's memory, and the memory of all Matriarchs that went before her? Why do you think she continues to rule over us? Because she has the wisdom of thousands of years, granted to her by Paya herself. If you think the new Matriarch will leave the old Matriarch's business unfinished, you're a fool, Kvar'ye."

**xXx**

"I didn't know anyone did that anymore," Escthta said. "Consorts, I mean."  
"You're just not old enough to need one yet," Hir'cyn retorted. "It's a serious undertaking. I have known others who have done it, but to be the Consort of a Matriarch… there are three days of funerary rituals alone."

"So you're responsible for her as she dies, and until she's laid to rest?"

"Yes." Hir'cyn looked tired and his next sentence was halting. "It is not something I am looking forward to; she's a remarkable creature." He was quiet and then looked at H'chak-di.

"You know, Escthta," he started, looking at the human and her attentiveness, even though she could only half-understand them. She smiled, that weird curving smile that looked as if she was in pain. Hir'cyn shook his head. "Forget it."

**xXx**

"I'm not convinced," Tjat'le said after a moment. "The Matriarch's favor doesn't grant one immunity from the consequences of one's actions."

"But he didn't do anything wrong. A Blooded warrior does not have to make a formal challenge to address wrongs committed against him." It was Ren'da's voice, the voice of the laws of their people, and it was true.

"Were the wrongs committed against him or the human?" Tjat'le wondered out loud, and then he turned to Thtarok, who was suddenly looking ill. "Which is it, Thtarok?" he asked.

"The human. Her purpose was fulfilled, so I didn't see any harm in using her to obtain other data."

Tjat'le narrowed his eyes, fixing them on Thtarok. The scientist was lying, but why? What was he carefully omitting from his story? "Was she harmed at all in your quest for data, Thtarok?"

"Minor flesh wounds, Liege."

Tjat'le's probing had elicited the response he sought from Thtarok, an admission and a recognition of rank. It was an engraved invitation to lambaste him for his overreaching.

"And yet you knew of the contract that was struck here months ago, that established him as her Protector?"  
"She's only a human!"

"Human or not, the contract was between the Psionic and the Matriarch. It is not your business to test its reaches or question its validity." Tjat'le finished in a loud, deep voice, but the words stung Thtarok, a public reprimand not easily endurable by any yautja. He boiled with hatred inside and burned Ren'da with a look of pure vitriol.

Tjat'le also turned his head to look at Ren'da. "Since Escthta was provoked and the human, technically his property, was protected by contract, I see no reason to declare him a Bad Blood. Though there is considerable pressure to execute him without regard for his right to defend himself," he said slowly, looking at Kvar'ye and Thtarok in turn, "you have convinced me that there are no legal grounds to do so." _For which I am very thankful_, he added mentally, unwilling to deal with the rioting that would ensue if an execution was allowed. Ren'da bowed his head respectfully.

"But that doesn't solve the main problem. He's a Psionic. These three," Tjat'le said, gesturing to Thtarok, Kvar'ye and Bruyaun, who looked puffy and anxious, "want me to execute him regardless. Considering the history of Psionics, I can understand their… concern." The other six members of the Council watched him, each measuring the words in their minds and finding their approval or displeasure with parts of it.

"So," he said at length, "tell me what I should do with him instead."

**xXx**

Hir'cyn looked at Rathde and then at Escthta. The time had pleasantly passed with a drink, but it was time to get down to the real reason he had come to Escthta's quarters. Escthta sensed the change, the loosening in Hir'cyn's mind, and instead of forcing his way in, sat back and let his friend do the speaking.

"Escthta, the Council knows what you are. And now that you know the history behind Psionics, it will come as no surprise that they want to kill or control you."

"Control me?" Escthta frowned, a grimace of bewilderment. "But what have I done?"

"Nothing, except this last little skirmish with Thtarok. That's just enough to get them worried. Remember that Thio-de didn't give them any warning either."

"But they can't kill me either. No one will tolerate an execution, even if it's a Bad Blood."

"Execution?" H'chak-di interrupted their conversation with a timid voice. "Are you in trouble?"

Escthta chittered softly at her, shaking his head. "Everything's fine. No one's going to execute anyone."

"To that end, Escthta, the Council is holding a meeting to decide what to do about you." Hir'cyn's voice was deep and serious.

"When?"

"Now."

**xXx**

"You will not budge, Kvar'ye?"

"Of course not! What a ridiculous idea! We should kill him and be done with it."

"But we can't execute him, Kvar'ye." Ghanede's measured tones, calculated to calm him, only angered him further.

"He's a Psionic! The normal rules don't apply!"

"The rules do apply. We cannot make exceptions as we see fit. The law is the law."

"Damn the law!" Bruyaun had finally erupted under pressure, his fear tangible. "I remember the bodies that day, I remember the bags of gore shaped like my Clan members. I won't let another one of those monsters loose, not when I have the chance to kill him!"

The frothing Councilman startled Ren'da and Ghanede, who began to realize the purity of the fear that reinforced the convictions of their opponents.

"Do you think we are not afraid, Councilman Bruyaun," Noskor said quietly, "of that day so many years ago? Do you think you are the only one who saw people turn into puddles and splashes on walls?" He threaded his fingers together, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. "Of course not. We all remember that day and what it brought. And as the law was firm then, so it is now. If he was put to death, it would be a tragedy, an invitation to chaos, and as the stewards of this civilization, the protectors of stability, we cannot let that happen."

"What have we come to when we cannot eliminate one who threatens our very existence? Are we a kinder, gentler Council?" Kvar'ye sneered. "Should we give him a plush suite and bow and scrape for one so young, simply because we lack the spine to do what is right?" His voice grew to almost a roar in the Council's chambers.

Noskor's blind eye narrowed. "On the contrary, Kvar'ye, it is because we have the spine to do what is right that we will not execute him."

The silence between the Councilmembers hung in the air; each side had said their piece. When the quiet grew too heavy to support itself, Tjat'le said softly, "To a vote, then."

**xXx**

Rathde hesitated at the doors of the Council Hall, but only for an instant. He straightened his shoulders, walking behind Hir'cyn, side-by-side with the human. She walked double-time to keep up with their long strides, and he found himself almost pitying her. If Escthta was executed, would the Council keep their word and ship her off to the planet of her choice? Or would she end up a slave or worse? Her fate depended on the Psionic that walked in front of her, and it was a precarious position he did not envy her.

The doors to the Council's chambers loomed large and graven in front of them, and Hir'cyn stopped for a moment, looking at Escthta, and then gripping him on the shoulder and shaking him, the closest thing to reassurance he could offer. Escthta pushed the doors open, walking in with H'chak-di close behind him.

It was very different from the last time he had been there, the presentation of a human female to a room full of yautja males. In that action there had been an admission of weakness, not just to females, but to other species, and that in and of itself had set the Council on edge. But now there was not just the threat of capitulation to females. Now they worried about corruption of their system from within, a rogue yautja, a Psionic who could destroy them all.

The panic registered on their faces; none of them had expected to be disturbed in their deliberations, least of all by the subject of their debate. There was anger, fear, panic, surprise; a toxic miasma of violent emotions assaulted him, but he only steadied his shoulders, stopping several paces from them.

"Escthta." Noskor was the first to acknowledge him.

Escthta bowed his head to his former mentor. "Noskor," and then to Tjat'le, a deeper inclination of his head. "My Liege."

Tjat'le stood, facing the young Psionic and looking him in the eye, though Escthta was at least a hand taller than him. "If you're here, then you know." The Elder Councilman cast a long look at Hir'cyn, who stood near the door with Rathde. "I think I can guess how you found out."

"You don't have to be a mind-reader to figure that out," Escthta offered.

Tjat'le chuckled darkly. "Indeed." He turned and gestured with a wide wave of his arm at the other members of the Council. "We were just discussing you, as it happens."

"I know."

Tjat'le's widened smile closed, and he regained his seriousness. "So you do." He paced, surreptitiously glancing at Kvar'ye and Bruyaun, Thtarok the scientist gripping the arms of his chair with his skin stretched tight over his knuckles. "Then you know what we were discussing."

"Whether or not to kill me."

"That is correct." Tjat'le leveled a sinister look on Escthta. "You must also be able to divine the result with your… gifts."

"I avoid places I am not wanted."

"And what makes you think we want you here?" spat Bruyaun, unable to contain himself anymore. A look from Tjat'le silenced the rotund Councilman.

"Nothing. I'd rather not be here, but there are things being addressed I can't ignore. _She_ won't either," he finished, nodding his head toward the other end of the room.

The door to the Matriarch's chambers opened, creaking inward and revealing the avatar of Paya. Swathed in heavy robes edged with embroidery, she was no less mysterious than the first time Escthta had seen her, if less revealing. She was hooded, her head draped with a silk cloth, each fiber almost luminescent. An intricate design that made use of the yautja's love for three-sided shapes bordered the scarf, which trailed from the crown of her head smoothly. A simple diadem was visible on her forehead, and delicate tasseled chains trailed from it, hanging underneath her upper tusks and gathered back under the scarf. Her lower tusks were still belled, and they chimed softly as she opened her lower tusks in a smile.

"Councilmen," she greeted them, with a small bow of her head. The thrum of divinity was missing from her voice; she was only the Matriarch, and Escthta realized with more and more clarity that he could not sense any sort of holiness about her.

_Of course you can tell, being one who Speaks_, said the Matriarch's voice in his mind. _But do not tell the Council. They only suspect. _

Escthta blinked and then nodded. _Yes, Lady, I will keep your secret._

_Thank you, Escthta._ Her eyes were still dark and warm, but the sockets they were set in had deepened and were edged with wrinkles. The more he looked at her, the more he saw the ages creeping in on her like a hunting pack. He bowed his head, afraid his face might give him away. He felt both her sorrow and her relief. _Everything will come to a head in this room,_ he thought, _and in a few minutes, all of our fates will be sealed._

"You have been meeting regarding the fate of a young Blooded warrior," the Matriarch said, interrupting his thoughts, and Escthta was pleased to hear that she had lost none of her warm serenity to the advancing ages yet.

"Yes, Lady," said Tjat'le. "We were only just about to announce our results."

"After you called him here," she added. "You wouldn't make such a decision without him present, would you, Councilmen?"

"Of course not, Lady."

"Very well. You may proceed," she said, walking slowly across the room. She towered over them, and even though Escthta was the tallest male in the room, she was still taller than he.

Tjat'le drew himself up to his full height, a nearly meaningless effort in the face of the giantess and her favorite.

"The Council, bound under oath to uphold and maintain the stability of the City in which it is housed, has reached a decision regarding Escthta, a recently discovered Psionic. In previous incidents, Psionics have proven dangerous to the populace and to themselves. Based on these incidents and written law, the Council feels it necessary to enact upon Escthta the following restrictions. One, that he be stripped of rank indefinitely. Two, that he surrender himself to the custody of this Council immediately."

Tjat'le paused. There had been no cry for justice, and Escthta's face remained stony and unchanging. The Matriarch regarded him with her solemn gaze, the one he had come to loathe as a Councilman; even he felt like little more than a suckling when pinned with that look, and it made him feel all the more guilty to be under that scrutiny and finish reading the verdict.

"Three, that he shall remain in permanent exile indefinitely."

"Exile!" Escthta could not contain the outburst. Stripped of rank was bad enough, but exile?

"Is that your judgment, Tjat'le?" The Matriarch watched him unblinkingly.

"We reached it through a vote," Tjat'le replied.

"Ah," the Matriarch said, and then said nothing else. Her silence filled all the Councilmembers with a kind of child's guilt, and even Kvar'ye looked down at where his hands rested on the arms of his chair.

"Do you accept these terms, Escthta?" The Matriarch said. "Will you give yourself up willingly?"

"I don't see what I have done wrong!"

It wasn't right that he should give up his rank because they were frightened of him. How could they do this to him? It wasn't fair! His anger seized him and he looked on the Council, even Noskor, with a red rage lashing the backs of his eyeballs.

"Escthta!"

And like that, it was gone, the rage dismissed like smoke by a strong wind, and even the lingering hint could not last long. He looked at the Matriarch and understanding reached him.

_It is not about what is right or fair; such a life is not promised to us. We are only given a life, and how it is lived depends as much on us as it does on the whims of fortune. _

Her voice was gone, and then Escthta looked at the Council, and even the hatred of Thtarok, an almost visible aura of malcontent around Kvar'ye, even these he was able to accept. He shook his head, feeling his sinuses sting. "Yes, Lady. I accept these terms." He paused. "But H'chak-di…"

All eyes turned to the human, and she, who had been quiet the entire time, stepped out from behind Escthta, her brow wrinkled with concern.

"You have fulfilled your promise to me, H'chak-di," the Matriarch said slowly. "I have fulfilled mine- we will never again visit your home planet."

"But Escthta," she said, looking up at the giant who had been responsible for her safety all these months. "Where will he go?"

"I will leave that up to Ren'da. He is the Arbiter on the Council and he enacts all of the decisions involving the laws," the Matriarch explained gently. "Tell me instead where you will go. What is the planet of your choosing?"

She didn't hesitate. "I have no family but him. Where ever he is exiled, that is where I want to be."

The Matriarch smiled softly and then rested her enormous hand on H'chak-di's shoulder. "So it shall be."

**xXx  
**

The time in the ship was both long and short. Escthta and H'chak-di were put into a room containing two beds, and H'chak-di (for this was now how she thought of herself) missed the plush comfort of the bed in the ziggurat. Hir'cyn had apologized, but his clout had already been stretched to the limit keeping them out of the cells. Days and then a week rolled by, and H'chak-di began to get used to the ship's food again, finding it nostalgic of her first days with the Hunters, the fear and uncertainty replaced with resolve and even a little despair.

Ren'da had delegated the task of transporting Escthta to his planet of exile to Hir'cyn at the subtle suggestion of the Matriarch. Hir'cyn had contested the issue in private, but the Matriarch had insisted upon it, Consort or no. Thus, he found himself adrift in the endless blackness of space, looking down at the planet upon whose mercies he would cast Escthta and H'chak-di. Although he didn't understand the location or the reason, he would follow Ren'da's orders and set them down here.

The landing was rough, as landings always were for Hir'cyn. The dropship following Ren'da coordinates had pitched them down on a rocky beach, overcast with a heavy layer of clouds blocking out the sun. The smell of saltwater stung the inside of his mouth, and Hir'cyn closed his tusks, as did Escthta. The beach was approached by a forest several hundred yards away, and there was a chill in the air, for winter had just begun.

Escthta was allowed to keep his wristblades and a spear, and H'chak-di carried a small pack with provisions. They said nothing for long moments; H'chak-di stared at the sea, mesmerized by the wave action upon the sand, and Hir'cyn and Escthta watched it for a moment as well before Hir'cyn sighed.

"You have to leave." Escthta had been trying to read his mind, find his location, unwilling to totally accept his exile, but Hir'cyn was bottled up, all his thoughts kept close and private.

"Yes."

"Thank you. For everything you've done."

Hir'cyn nodded and then looked at the human. After a moment's regard, he reached up to his shoulders and unsnapped his cloak, letting the blue unfurl in the wind off the ocean. With a motion, he swept it around H'chak-di, who drowned in its length, but smiled weakly. "Thank you," she said, and although there was no translation, Hir'cyn understood her.

He turned to go and then turned back, leaning close to Escthta. "Head east, then south," he said quickly, and then the ship was closing up with him inside it.

The awkward pair watched it until the fire from its thrusters disappeared into the cloud cover.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _This chapter will be the last chapter of Quality of Resonance for a while. This is the dreaded Planned Hiatus, during which I will be writing Cthinde's story. _

_Cthinde's story will be, as one reviewer put it, one of those godawful pred/human romances. Perhaps not flowery. And perhaps not accepted. It's a dynamic I wanted to explore in this story, but found that the more I wrote it, the harder I was going to have to work to shoehorn it into the story. Which is not to say that getting Cthinde into a relationship of any kind with a human will be easy, or even possible. But that's something I want to look at. If you're not cool with that, don't read it. You can look at it as "Cthinde went and did some stuff". _

_About the Hiatus, I will be writing three chapters alongside with Cthinde's story. Rather than publish each one on its own and have certain plot points misunderstood or even bemoaned, I will publish all three at once, so that the entirety of the chunk can be digested by the reader and perhaps my twists and turns will be a bit easier to swallow. _

_Thanks to Sara, the faithful and patient beta for this chapter. And here's hoping that Masurao will stop playing WoW and come back to our fandom, which so dearly misses her. Also love to the CG, Sol and Drakon, the original fangirls._

_If you have any questions about things thus far or simply want to chat, IM me and I'll be happy to explain anything. _


	21. A World Without Flowers

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _See Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

The rhythmic tides pushed on the rocks at their feet, small sea creatures lurching as the tide rolled them back and forth in the potholes in the beach rock. Escthta looked out across the wide-open sea and then at the grey-white sky. Perhaps he hoped to see the dropship returning, or maybe faces seek the heavens instinctively when looking for guidance. H'chak-di thumbed the straps of the shoulder pack anxiously, although there was no one to hurry or worry for but themselves.

She looked up at Escthta, the giant who had become her whole world. Everything she interacted with among the Hunters passed through his lens, and with him, she'd come to understand them as a group of proud, fearless individuals that expected only the best out of themselves and others; the weak were not tolerated. She hoped that now, on the leading edge of what could be a metaphorical cliff, she could prove herself worthy.

"What will we do?" Her voice was soft, tucked into the receding tides.

"We will head east."

"How do we know which way east is?" A strange world, a strange star; who knew if it even rotated in the same way? She struggled to tamp down her fear and panic. Escthta looked down at her. He had been given his mask for use on this planet, its diagnostic tools invaluable. It hid all his emotions from her, leaving her guessing as to his true emotional state.

Few words had passed between them since the sentencing a week or so ago. Escthta had been working through his own kind of loss with barely a thought to H'chak-di's comfort. He realized with sudden clarity that she had been content to follow him through any and all madness, trusting him implicitly with her life. He watched her face, hoping that the directions Hir'cyn gave him, spare as they were, might help him get back to where he needed to be.

"East is where the sun rises." Escthta's voice had a surety he did not feel. He felt broken down, torn apart and alone. It had been months since he had been with his Clan, but he had always expected to go back when this was all over, when his mission was carried out. And then H'chak-di fell into his life and the Clan's absence was filled with her curiosity, her shrinking acceptance, her small kindnesses. Human words issued from his mouth with a carefree ease, Paya Herself had asked his help – who might refuse a god? – and the Council had branded him a threat, kicking him out of yautja society without a second thought. _Is this really better than an honorless death under an executioner's ax?_ he wondered to himself, rather wishing he had been given the choice.

They made their way inland, the coastal rock giving way to a series of meadows dotted with scrub. The grass rippled green-blue, glossy stalks flashing in the wind, the air lashing it like water into tides. H'chak-di tugged Hir'cyn's cloak closer around her, and tucked her head down, walking behind Escthta as he lead the way toward the distant black line of trees and slightly higher ground. H'chak-di's short stride length limited his speed, which agitated him, but he could do nothing for it. They plodded on, reaching the forest just as night fell.

The night was cooler than he'd expected and it took some time for the fire he built to take; the wood was moist and failed to burn with anything approaching gusto. H'chak-di sat close to it, her pale skin painted orange by the low fire, glad she had kept her bodysuit from Craxan. Escthta's face was passive, a mask of nothing, but inside he struggled with blame for himself and her. Unable to decide who deserved more of it, he breathed in a shock of cold air and stood. "I'll bring food."

His terse words were all he said before he vanished into the darkness of the wood, leaving H'chak-di alone with the fire. She tended it carefully, mindful of her dependence on its warmth, and it soon grew into a robust blaze visible for more than a mile. Behind her, the forest was quiet. No bird or animal calls broke the silence of the night; even the wind forsook their small camp, although it was more because this was the lee side of the forest than any sinister plot H'chak-di could imagine. The hour was growing late; by her estimation it was two hours after sunset, and the chill deepened into a bone-numbing cold. She pulled the cloak tighter around her, hoping that Escthta would return soon. A twig snapped behind her, and she turned her head with a small smile.

A large thing, for she could not distinguish its shape in the night, leered at her with lantern-like eyes. Below the eerie eyes, a mouthful of teeth glinted dully in the firelight. H'chak-di's smile faded, and she dropped the cloak, her heart beginning to race. One hand reached out and grabbed a large branch, its end deep in the fire. She shifted slowly, and the creature tensed; she felt it more than she saw it, an intake of breath on both their parts as they stared each other down.

With a yell, she ripped the branch out of the fire and brandished it toward the beast, whose face was lit horribly by the burning wood, its lantern eyes extinguished and made into dark sockets by the torch held aloft. The snarl that had first curled its fleshy lips eased out, and it watched her, a thrum issuing forth as it began to perceive that she was no longer prey, she was something to be feared. She was a threat.

She screamed at the animal, a war-cry that humans long ago forgot how to make, and swung her branch at it. It leaped back, snarling at her, its toothy maw agape. It crept forward and she made to club it with the brand, and bits of wood ash fluttered away as she swung and missed. The creature began to circle around her, and though she made pains to face it, a third feint with the burning branch did not deter it nearly as readily as had the first. Its legs tensed to spring.

There was another roar, much closer, and a dark shape leapt onto the creature's back. Raising the torch higher, she saw Escthta astride the monster, his huge frame made small by the sheer size of the beast. His wrist blades glinted as they rose and fell in the firelight, but even with the number of stabs he was making, the creature would not fall. It turned to bite at him, trying to nip at his feet with its dagger-teeth, to pull him into the reach of its mouth with a heavy paw. It shook him, its ridged back hair wobbling, but Escthta had some kind of strange grip on him, and could not be moved.

Mad with pain, the creature turned for her, for the fire, sensing on some level that the attack was meant to protect her, his only Clan. It stumbled toward her, and the lanterns in its face were lit again, glowing brightly as it drew closer. It roared, its voice a deeper echo of Escthta's, setting her internal organs shaking with its stentorian call.

Escthta loosed his grip, falling forward and catching the filth-encrusted fur near its shoulder. He swung down, his blade arm stretching, and punched his wrist-blades into its throat. A gout of black-green blood gushed over his hand, and he jerked his arm back around, half-decapitating it. Bubbles formed in its mouth and spluttered out of the wound as it gasped for air. It wheezed once and then fell. The beast collapsed on the edge of their camp, its long tongue lolling out of its mouth, eyes glassing over. Escthta fell off the side of it, his fingers cramped into claws.

H'chak-di dropped her burning branch back in the fire, running around the behemoth corpse to his side. He lifted his head wearily and then she heard his familiar chuckle. "Not exactly what I had in mind, but I guess we can eat it."

"Are you insane?! You might have gotten killed!"

Escthta propped himself up on his arms, wincing as he got to his feet. "I might have." He stood up, rolling his shoulders and then looked at the carcass, appraising it.

H'chak-di spluttered behind him as he moved away, and she began to lecture him, her voice growing shrill.

"Be still, H'chak-di," he said quietly, but firmly, and to his surprise, she obeyed. "I am old enough to know what risks I take, as well as which ones are worth taking." He looked at her around the massive head of the beast and his face was serious. "If I had not broken off my hunting to follow this creature, you would be dead."

Blood drained from H'chak-di's face as the nearness of her scrape with death caught up with her. He was right, of course; his presence alone had saved her from becoming an evening meal for whatever it was that lay dead at the edge of their camp.

"Thank you."

"You do not need to thank me, H'chak-di," Escthta said, his voice half-lost in the filthy side of the animal. There was the thunk of blade through bone, and then a wet noise as he peeled out a slab of meat from the haunches. He brought it over to the fire, skewering it and setting up a makeshift spit.

"It's a pity," he said slowly, "that we have no way to preserve the meat, but it won't be the last one we see."

"Won't be… it won't be the last one of those?" H'chak-di was confused; how could Escthta know anything about this creature?

Escthta grunted, settling back in front of the fire, his forearms rested on his knees, hands black with blood and ash dangling in the air. "I don't think so. It is a _sr'keth_, a native animal of my homeworld." At the look on her face, he raised a bloody finger and preempted her question. "We seeded several hunting worlds with them in ages past, before the Hard Meat became the trial for the Blooded."

Escthta lifted his head and watched the blue-gray smoke vanish into the night sky. After a long pause, H'chak-di spoke. "So what does it being here… what does it mean?"

Escthta shrugged. "It may mean nothing." He turned the spit in the fire, rotating charred meat out of the flames.

"It bothers you that it's here, doesn't it?"

Escthta looked up at H'chak-di. Her face was worried, the strange wrinkles of human concern on her forehead. He nodded slowly. "It does."

He looked back into the fire, the heat drying his eyes so that they stung when he closed them. "I can't quite place why it makes me uneasy, but it does."

H'chak-di smiled and sat down next to him, pulling the cloak up around her shoulders again. She looked at the dead _sr'keth_ and then into the fire. "Will it attract scavengers?"

Escthta drew in a breath and then let it out. "Hard to tell." He paused, his breath white in the air, and then relaxed some. "If it were any other animal, probably so. It won't begin to smell dead until tomorrow, and we'll be a long way off by then."

**xXx**

Hir'cyn's body ached in the most satisfactory way, and it was only with extreme reluctance that he raised a clawed hand to halt Rathde's advance. "Enough, enough! I am twice your age!"

Rathde stopped, his fists dropping slightly, his toes buried in the sand of the _kehrite_.

Hir'cyn rose to his full height from the stooped fighting stance he had assumed, and he pressed a hand to his side, where bright green blood seeped from a shallow scratch.

"I will need a permanent medic if we continue to spar on a regular basis, Rathde," he said, rolling his other shoulder and groaning inwardly at the stiffness that was already beginning to creep into his muscles.

"What you need is more sparring, not less. You're out of shape," Rathde chided. He picked up his towel from the benches around the _kehrite_, brushing the sand off his arms.

Hir'cyn hmmphed. "At my age, sparring is hardly necessary."

"At your age, it should be required."

Hir'cyn gave him a sour look. "In any case, I would think you fit for Hunting soon." The Elder looked down at the transplanted foot his young protégé stood on. It was fit and muscled, and they had only been training lightly on it for a few weeks.

"But how could I get into a Hunt? I have no Clan," Rathde countered, his expression darkening.

"A good point." Hir'cyn wrapped himself in his own towel, making steps toward the baths. That was something that would need work. An Elder's influence would slick the track, so to speak, but he sensed that the young Rathde would much rather earn something on his own merit. He was eager to regain his honor, and it troubled Hir'cyn the lengths he might go to in getting there.

The bath chamber was thick with steam; Hir'cyn began walking toward the back, his feet sure on the stonework. He eased into the mineralized water, still thoughtful, and Rathde stepped in on the other side. These were artificial hot baths, circulated and cleaned daily, although a fine grit of sand from various sparring rings dusted the bottom of the hot pool. A contented sigh hissed out between his tusks as Hir'cyn settled into the hot water, and moments later, a similar noise of relaxation hummed out of Rathde.

Though he was emancipated, Rathde insisted on staying with Hir'cyn, which was difficult for the Elder. Having to treat a slave as a Blooded hunter was a change of pace that required active effort on his part; Hir'cyn's little experiment had worked better than he'd planned. "We shall think on it, then. How to get you on—"

Hir'cyn broke off, the sound of voices echoing down the stone halls reaching him. These training grounds were reserved for Elders and their comrades, and he had been the only one on the schedule today. Hir'cyn frowned, the intrusion unwelcome. One of the voices was distinctly familiar, but Hir'cyn couldn't place it right away. Rathde's face, dimly obscured by steam, looked concerned, but at a motion from Hir'cyn he stayed mute.

"It's your fault," one voice growled, and the other made a sound of protest.

"Hardly my fault. I wanted him executed."

"And what good would that have done me?" Indignant. Shrill. Hir'cyn narrowed his eyes. Thtarok.

"I don't really give a damn about you. You had your chance. From now on we'll do things my way." The volume rose and the echoes vanished as they entered the rock-lined bath chamber. The steam all but obscured them, but even Hir'cyn could recognize Kvar'ye's burly frame.

_What now? Cough loudly so they'll know we're here? Or stay quiet and listen to them?_ A split second and his decision was made; he would stay quiet and see what he might learn. _What could they be talking about?_ Rathde was staring intently at him, almost willing him to leave, but Hir'cyn moved his head imperceptibly side to side and hushed him.

"Your way isn't much better," the scientist hissed. "I'd have never gotten any data at all if you'd had your way." A small yelp and a splash heralded the scientist's entrance into a spa near the front of the room. A heavier step and splash was made by Kvar'ye, who made no such yelp.

"My way will keep us from being liquefied in our skins," Kvar'ye snarled. "He nearly killed you, all because you and your… " A groan of revulsion slipped from the burly Councilman. Thtarok made no reply.

"Don't give me that look." Kvar'ye snapped. "Humans are alright for Hunting, if we _must_—you know my feelings on that—but fucking one is beyond the pale."

"As if your tastes aren't any more vile, Kvar'ye." The scientist's voice was soft, barely audible, and Hir'cyn strained to hear it. "Yes, I know about your little kink, Kvar'ye. Don't give me that look," Thtarok mimicked back at the Councilman.

"…Take care that no one else hears of it," Kvar'ye said in a low voice. "Least of all Ren'da. The last thing he needs is more ammunition against me."

A small growl of rage escaped Thtarok, who dashed the water with his fist. "Damn that Ren'da! Not once, but twice he's done this to me!"

"You did it to yourself this time," Kvar'ye murmured. "You shouldn't let your lusts dictate your actions."

"That's some advice, coming from you."

"Mind your own matters before attending to others'," Kvar'ye said, a sinister undertone lacing his words. Thtarok said no more on the subject, but switched instead to something they could agree on.

"Something should be done about Ren'da," the scientist groaned.

"And what should we do, Thtarok? He's far too cautious for an assassin to get very far."

"You and your assassins! You tried to kill Escthta twice, and both times he saw right through it!" Thtarok's voice grated Hir'cyn's nerves to powder.

"I haven't had to deal with a clairvoyant before, Thtarok," Kvar'ye spat. "Besides, the Psionic is in exile on some Paya-damned world at the end of the galaxy."

"We have _no_ idea where they chose to exile him, Kvar'ye. Ren'da could have put him anywhere."

"Relax, Thtarok," Kvar'ye said, sounding for the first time pleased with himself. "It's not as if they'd just take him up into space for a week and drop him right back down here."

Thtarok paused and then gruffly conceded. "I suppose that's true."

Hir'cyn could barely believe his ears. Two attempts on Escthta's life? He knew about the strange animal in their bedchambers, but was that the second or the first? He looked at Rathde, who had seemed to space out, his eyes unfocused, pretending to be somewhere else. Hir'cyn was beginning to feel the same way, but the next words grabbed his attention and held him hostage.

"And what of the Matriarch?" Kvar'ye's voice had become a lazy drawl.  
"What of her?"

"Is she or isn't she dying?"

"She'll only allow her own attendants to examine her, not that it surprises anyone." Thtarok sounded slightly bitter. "To be honest, I don't know."

"Hmmph."

"Although the headscarf is damning. If her hair has greyed, then Paya has already left her and found a new avatar." Silence stretched and then Thtarok spoke again. "It might explain why she has not left the City, even though the Psionic has been dealt with. It would also explain Hir'cyn."

A chuckle broke from Kvar'ye. "Indeed, it would explain him nicely."

"And when she passes?" Thtarok said cautiously. "How shall we know the new Matriarch?"  
Kvar'ye shrugged, rolling his bare shoulder in the warm water. "I am not sure. We were barely Clan Leaders when she was selected, and from what I understand, hers was simply a glorious appearing."

"Appearing?"

"Literally. The Council was convening on the Matriarch's death, and her attendant stumbled in. Paya descended on her in front of them, so there was no doubt as to her claims."

"What does a goddess look like without an avatar?" Thtarok sniffed delicately.

"I don't think we'll have any problem knowing her." Kvar'ye sounded sure of himself.

**xXx**

Escthta was right about the smell. It was rank by the time she awoke; the dark of night had not fully yielded to dawn when Escthta moving around the camp woke her. The _sr'keth _had attracted a significant number of buzzing flies, in spite of the fire's smoke and the chill. They were on their way in moments, having little in the way of possessions to weigh them down. He shouldered the pack while H'chak-di walked beside him.

The forest posed little problem, even for H'chak-di; A recent fire had charred the trunks of some trees black and killed all the underbrush. Escthta briefly explained that this was what had kept him so long the night before; the prey available had been slim, when the _sr'keth_ had entered his awareness, manifesting itself as a numbing hunger for carrion roasted by fire.

"Have you figured out what makes you uneasy about the… animal?" H'chak-di's voice was quiet, nearly swept away by the breeze that they walked against.

"It doesn't seem right, to put me on a world with _sr'keth_. I can't believe the Council would grant me a boon like that."

"A boon?"

"A target familiar to the yautja is not something you give to him when you want him dead."  
"But you're in exile."

Escthta shook his head. "It is the same thing, the end of life in the yautja society. I am all but dead to them."

"I don't get it," she said with a huff, obviously exasperated at the yautja thought process. "If they wanted you dead, why didn't they kill you and get the job done?"

"I don't know," Escthta ground out bitterly.

The crunch of their feet in the blackened leaf litter was all the sound they heard as they forged ahead. It wasn't long before H'chak-di spoke again.

"So, what if this is your homeworld?

Escthta looked at her as they walked. "What if it is?" He shook his head slowly, turning his eyes back to the horizon they constantly sought.

"Well, doesn't that change things?"

"I don't see how," he said quietly. "I am still in exile." The word was painful for him, and he choked on it.

"But if you get back to the City—"

"Nothing will change." He continued walking, although H'chak-di had stopped when he cut her off.

"You can't mean that. They'll have to accept you back if you get to the City."

Escthta paused to wait for her, his mandibles working slowly under his mask. "It's a point better not argued," he said finally, wearying of this line of thought.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn watched her eyes open and close, ignoring the weariness that ached in his bones; he hadn't slept in a day and a half. His body struggled with fatigue and the duty that required his presence. He sensed the Matriarch was near her end.

Her hair was unbound, long silver-white lengths on her couch, ready to be braided into dreadlocks for her final rest. She smiled softly at him, her breaths small and shallow, seeming to require great effort. "I am not long," she said shortly, her voice a wheezing sound, not at all like the Allmother's voice should be.

"I know," he said, enclosing her hand in both of his. Her hand was chilled, icy in the warmth of his palms. He chafed it, working to get the blood back into her limbs, the warmth back into her eyes. She moved her head only slightly to the side. "We must not be afraid of death, Hir'cyn. It comes in its time, and I have lived a full life." The words creaked out of her slowly as she made pains to speak. When she stopped, her eyes closed for a long time before opening again.

Hir'cyn dipped his head, hiding the grief that threatened to betray his eyes. Part of him had wished desperately for a reprieve, for a window opened where a door had been closed. But this was gritty reality, where pain could only be postponed, never ignored. "I am deeply honored," he said finally, raising his head and meeting her steady gaze, "to be at your side."

She smiled, a ghost of her former smile, and then nodded slowly, settling into the cushions behind her head. "The Psionic," she started, as if she suddenly remembered something about him. Hir'cyn's mandibles quirked. It had been almost six weeks since he had left the Psionic Escthta and his human charge on a rocky beach under an overcast sky. "He will need... your help," she rasped, and Hir'cyn, feeling rage and sorrow twist his heart at her dementia, nodded. She smiled again, and Hir'cyn held her cold wrist to his forehead. She breathed even more shallowly, air barely passing her tusks. Hir'cyn watched helplessly as her face blanched. She slipped away from him, her lungs quitting their lifetime's work, and her heart beating its last.

The Consort, a noble and dignified figure, crouched over her and closed her eyelids with a tender hand. "Paya be blessed," he said softly, "For now you are truly free."

He granted himself a few moments with her, a small silence only the two of them shared before he found the strength to begin her mourning call. He tilted his head heavenward and opened his mandibles; the ululation that rose from his throat, a haunting howl that wavered with grief, summoned the attendants outside. The females, huge and imposing, stood at their dead mistress' side as her Consort's cry announced her passing. When all the air had passed Hir'cyn's tusks, his howl dropped to a hoarse whisper and his head fell forward. He was silent as the medics entered the room. One of the females chittered approvingly, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Hir'cyn looked at the medic, who nodded slowly to the other medic, and they looked to her attendants. "The Allmother has passed from this world," the first medic said.

"Paya be blessed, for now she is free," the senior attendant replied gravely. The responses were scripted, but delivered with no less meaning or weight than any heartfelt outpouring of grief. The yautja way was not to avoid grief, but not to shame the dead with weakness. Hir'cyn lifted his head slowly, the weight of the past months settling heavy on him. The senior attendant turned to him, and smiled weakly.

"Consort, take your rest. She is at peace now."

Hir'cyn didn't even open his mouth to argue, but turned and stepped down off the dais, pushing through the curtains that were hung for the Matriarch's privacy. He lifted a hand to his face, rubbing some of the strain away, and lesser attendants going to the Matriarch's side pretended they did not see the Consort weeping.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _I have decided to post this chapter and cut down the hiatus to two chapters instead of three. I felt I was being unfair in keeping this chapter, which is less 'loaded' than the other two, from my faithful readers who have been waiting so long for this. I hope this is enough to take the edge off your hunger, and that you'll stick with me for the rest of it. _

_Thanks to Chocobo Goddess, my steadfast beta, and Sara, both great friends and valued support. _


	22. Green Darkness

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**_ It's been a rough couple of months, but the hiatus is finally over. _

_I have also been writing adult fiction for the World of Warcraft fandom, available on adultfanfictiondotnet. It's not Predator, but it is something I am enjoying writing between spates of QoR. Check it out under authorname "Sealink" at AFF if you're interested. _

_Also, the Predaphiles Network is my main hangout these days, and if you feel the need, come register. We're (usually) a bastion of hope and intelligence in the Predator fandom._

_See additional Author's Notes at the end. _

**xXx**

The Matriarch's death was followed by Tjat'le's declaration of an official period of mourning, and the Elegy began even as Hir'cyn rode back to his quarters. Sung for three days from the tops of the City's four spires by the most accomplished voices in the yautja world, it haunted every moment of life in the city. The vocalists sang the lament until they collapsed from exhaustion, and even then, they rested only for a few scant hours before returning their voice to the other three.

It was only now, three days afterward, that the melismatic dirge faded away. It had mixed messages for Rathde, who had never seen the end of a Matriarch, but Hir'cyn had known what it meant, what the unison of voices slipping away into the aether told. She was ready for her rest, and he must perform his final act as her Consort and oversee her entombment.

The catacombs smelled foreign to Rathde; his mouth was dry with dust and the faint smell of decay. Hir'cyn walked in front of him in full formal dress, his rank rings shining in the flickering torchlight, greyed head slightly inclined. It was a posture Rathde was unused to seeing the proud Elder in, but these were, Rathde reminded himself, solemn days. The Hunting ships from all over the galaxy had been recalled, summoned back to mourn their goddess' death, and ships were still arriving hourly.

The mausoleum's ornately carved gates were the first of several measures taken to separate the Matriarchs from the people they lead. Here in the catacombs, near the northern Quarter, Honored yautja of all kinds were entombed as their stations in life befit them. Hir'cyn entered the crypt and Rathde followed him, his steps weak and shuffling compared to the measured, sure gait of his mentor. Precious metals gilt the bars and whorls and Hir'cyn lifted his hand to them, seeing twisted images of himself and his surroundings reflected in the beaten gold. The gates were unlocked already, and he pushed them with both palms. Once moving, they fell apart easily and locked against the walls of the cavernous mausoleum. He turned and waited for the funeral procession.

Rathde waited outside the gates, unable to shake the feeling of being watched and judged. The bones of lesser yautja glared at him accusingly from their humble notches in the walls, and he focused on the structure of the Matriarchs' mausoleum rather than meet their hollow stares. The ceiling was vaulted, receding into the darkness torchlight could not banish. Rounded columns of blue-green stone flecked with metallic minerals glittered in the firelight. The bronze braziers seemed to glow, both from their bolted sconces on the wall behind the columns and the three-legged freestanding torches that lined the long corridor from the outside world. The floor was swept smooth and was heavily polished, a deep and endless black stone that evoked the nothingness of space. It was the click of claws on this polished stone that brought Rathde out of his reverie; the procession was approaching. Rathde cast a quick glance at Hir'cyn but found his mentor staring blankly ahead.

Hir'cyn heard the procession and directed his attention toward it, seeing Rathde do the same out of the corner of his eye. They stepped into view, the first two a pair of eunuchs carrying hanging censers, blue-white smoke drifting lazily out of them. In them burned the dried leaves and berries of native plants instead of incense; these plants were known to cause visions in the susceptible, and it was employed here to reveal the new Matriarch. Hir'cyn had heard no screams, no cries as the goddess descended on a disciple, and it was good to him; he did not feel he could know her again yet. The ache of loss still throbbed in his chest. He turned to lead them into the mausoleum.

The procession crept deliberately down the black stone corridor, seeming to move through time and space. They stepped and paused, stepped and paused, each movement a simple advance with the swaying back of retreat, an unconscious resistance against death. Hir'cyn's rank rings clinked and jingled against the jewelry that dangled from his collar. The newest piece of this most formal attire was a small fang half-dipped in gold, incorporated into his freshly-braided dreadlocks; the glint flashed in the corner of his eyes and he felt proud and sad at the same time. It marked him as a Consort, a yautja worthy of a shard of divinity. The holy relic would protect him, as countless Consorts before him had been protected after the death of their Matriarchs.

He heard the creaking swing of the censers behind him, and behind that, the matched footsteps of the Matriarch's pall. Down, down they crept, and at last, they reached the mausoleum's antechamber, where the first Matriarch rested in a casket of platinum under a great white statue.

The statue was marble, taken from the ancient metamorphosed terrain far to the north. Though the figure was undeniably yautja, with dreadlocks and mandibles, there were no facial features. The anonymous female watched over the first Matriarch's tomb with a simple collar and crown, her hands clasped together in prayer. It was from a time far enough back that the lines between mythology and reality blurred, when regular yautja accomplished godlike feats and heroes walked among mortals. The funeral procession stopped here at the altar of the first Matriarch, offering a respectful moment of silence, and in some ways, a request for penitence for their intrusion. The smoke from the censers coiled up around the statue, and something happened in the sense that nothing happened, but there was the release of an unseen tension, and Hir'cyn felt it was appropriate to continue.

The tomb was down the rightmost of three wings that radiated out from this central antechamber. The stone changed back to blue-green schist, faintly lustrous in the firelight. Past three crypts, the somber parade continued, and on they went, down to the ninth crypt, dark doors held shut with a ward and bars. Hir'cyn removed the ward, placed there by the attendants that had prepared the tomb and sealed it to preserve its sanctity. One of the eunuchs handed his censer to the other and helped Hir'cyn lift the bars out of place, setting the heavy wooden beams aside. They pulled the doors wide, but only after the eunuch had retrieved his censer did Hir'cyn lead them into the holy space.

Oil lamps were lit with the torches, and by them, he saw how her attendants had prepared the tomb for their mistress. A raised altar in the middle of the far wall of the small triangular room lay prepared with fresh branches and herbs, scenting the room with a heady, evocative aroma. Below it, the tomb was opened, stone lid slid off to the back. Inside were more of the same, a plush bed of greenery that would cradle her stiff body. The walls adjacent to the entrance were laid in with shelves, and on them were the skulls of creatures she had killed in a life before divine servitude. Their sockets all seemed directed at the stone sarcophagus, a multitude of watchers to bear witness to their hunter's death.

Hir'cyn would not be able to recall the eulogy he delivered for her. He looked at her pall from his position on the altar's dais, seeing the precious death mask that wove her mandibles closed, a netting of gold studded with gems that held her mouth shut, perhaps sparing her the indignities of decay. The females bore their mother goddess with pride and sorrow; there was a fierceness in their faces that simultaneously frightened and fascinated him. He admired their ferocity and their devotion. Each of them was hoping to be chosen by Paya to become the next Matriarch, but they were very mortal even now, the strain of sorrow lining their faces, darkening their tired eyes.

A quartet of musicians began to play as she was lowered into the crypt, and Hir'cyn looked at them, their bone flutes plaintive and wan. The _sth'ki_ were customary for funerals, but four players at once was rare, and he sighed inwardly, turning his mind to reflection. The pallbearers stood upright again after nestling their mistress among her leaves. There was a strain in their shoulders, though the Matriarch's pall was now empty; they had borne not just the weight of a corpse, but the weight of a god.

**xXx**

They needed to find a shelter from the biting cold. Escthta's heating mesh no longer kept the elements at bay, and H'chak-di had stopped speaking a while ago. He felt her mind simplify, the activity level falling until there was a singular purpose. _One foot in front of the other, inhale, one foot in front of the other, exhale_. The higher altitudes were making it difficult on both of them, and he found himself sucking in air at a shallow, quick rate, his muscles desperate for oxygen. The lowlands of the mountain chain in front of them passed away under his feet, and they pushed ahead, making for a pass between peaks in front of them. A deep crevasse in the rock had already forced them to turn back and correct their path once, and he chafed inwardly that the time lost might have snowed in the pass. On cue, the heavens opened, and small flakes began to drift down, clumping together wetly as they passed through the atmosphere.

It was a tough decision for him to make; he felt the urge to push forward with an intensity he could not put into words. He yearned to know what lay ahead in the east, and more importantly, he wanted to know if the seed of doubt H'chak-di had planted in his mind would germinate. Was he, in fact, on his own planet?

The evidence he had found seemed to point to it; the _sr'keth_ was not necessarily a 'smoking gun', as H'chak-di had so quaintly phrased it. It had been used to seed Hunting worlds long before current conservational thinking became the norm, and it had proven a challenging adversary for generations of young yautja eager to earn their honor. Since those times, the _kainde amedha_ had gained vogue as the animal hunted in the Blooding trial. It was an easier animal to kill; the Hard Meat was much smaller in stature than the _sr'keth_. The danger the Hard Meat posed was not in its size, but in its speed and stealth. The shift had occurred only a millennium or so ago, a relatively short time in the yautja timeline, when the trend toward power declined, and quickness was emphasized. _There were still those who preferred power_, Escthta thought, his clawed toes scraping against a rock as they moved higher up the mountain's shoulders.

No, there had been other signs, too, although he had not told H'chak-di of them. The most worrisome was the strange and unbridled fear that had gripped him not a few days ago, as they began their climb into the mountain roots, pressing on into the east. Their path had taken them across a small glen in the trees, and it was in this glen that his mouth found a random scent molecule. The organ in his mouth took it in, parsed its meaning, and pressed Escthta's consciousness into a full-on panic attack. The smell keyed up a profound fear in him, though he could not explain why. He was overcome with the incredible desire to run and hide, though as mightily as his brain commanded him to, he could not. He was simply locked into a fear he could not escape.

H'chak-di's hand had jarred him out of it, bringing him back to reality. They were alone in the glen, and she looked at him with concern. He had brushed it off, pressing forward into the mountains. But the memory of the numbing fear stuck with him, and he had begun to adopt an attitude of 'wait-and-see'. If this was in fact his homeworld, somewhere on it was the City, and he was going to get there.

They reached the treeline, where vegetation gave way to stone; here, trees could only cling tenaciously to life, to say nothing of growing to great heights. The snow deepened suddenly, rising up to his calves, but they had not even left the forest yet. Raising his head, Escthta looked up at the snow-carved mountains, narrowing his eyes against the flakes that were thickening in the air. The dark volcanic rock surrendered no clues, and he looked down the mountain, blinking off the glare.

A long ribbon of white snaked down the mountain for several hundred feet, several tens of meters across. A boulder rested at the edge of the treeless area, grey but for the black spots created by landing snowflakes. This was a relatively fresh rockfall scar, not more than three or four winters old. As his eyes traced down the scar, he found the remnants of the destructive force: a single basalt boulder, several times his height.

Wrenched from the crown of the mountain by the small but persistent forces of freeze-thaw weathering, the jagged boulder had tumbled down the mountainside, crushing the woody trees in its way, coming to rest against an outcrop of similarly black rock. He looked closer, and then flicked a mandible out to change his scanning visor, narrowing his eyes at a darker spot underneath the boulder that looked suspiciously like a gap. The optics magnified the area, and he saw that there was in fact a small crevice. He looked at H'chak-di, shivering in the snow, Hir'cyn's cloak gathered around her and held closed in her tight little fist. For her sake, it might be worth it to check it out.

Escthta touched her shoulder and pointed her over to the boulders, and she nodded woodenly. They kept to the edge of the scar; Escthta didn't feel comfortable out in the open. The boulder loomed over them, and it was even larger than Escthta had originally estimated. The crevice beckoned, and it, too, was larger than he'd realized, appearing more like a small cave than any tight crawlspace. "Stay here," he said hoarsely, and he slowly crept forward into the darkness.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but as they did, he found that the cave inside was more than large enough for him to stand in. Formed by a gash in the boulder and a crook in the outcrop, the small hollow offered a welcome respite from the cold. Though it was by no means fully protected from the elements—he felt holes above him, rather than saw them—it would provide them with shelter. Out of the chill, he was already beginning to feel more alive. A poke around the corners cave revealed no spoor or any other signs of occupation, although the farther crevices felt a bit cold, and if they were going to stay, would need to be blocked.

"H'chak-di," he called, and she stumbled into the cave, looking up at him hopefully. He managed a small smile. "We'll stay here."

The gratitude that spread over her face was enough to make him chuckle in spite of their bleak surroundings. He gestured to a flat spot in the cave, where the outcrop began and the dead rushes underneath the boulder ended. "Rest here. I'll get some wood."

He cranked his heating mesh up as high as he thought would be safe; he would need to block off most of the cave entrance to keep as much heat as possible inside if they were to stay here.

Escthta sighed, finally admitting what he hadn't wanted to before; that they were going to have to winter over on this side of the mountains. If they had to, he supposed that this was as good a place as any.

**xXx**

The mixture of black and green coated Da-kvar'di's fingers; the contractions had finally stopped, but there was no denying what had happened. She rubbed her blood in circles on the insides of her thighs, trying to find something to take comfort in, but there is no comfort for such loss. The medic had left her several minutes ago, once it was determined the child was already dead, and the body was simply expelling that which was no longer alive.

It had happened sooner in this pregnancy than in the last one, and this time, she didn't even have a small form to hold in the palm of her hands; this time, it was unrecognizable clumps of flesh that her body produced, and she made out small bones that might have been a spine and skull if only she'd been able to carry the baby to term.

Da-kvar'di felt numb, watching the medic return and take the small aggregate of blood and material; once had been heart-rending, a shattering of her confidence as a female. She had sought out ways to conceive again, subjecting herself to destructive and foolish sciences, ignoring what her body had already told her with the death of one child. Twice was too much. She was a failure, not only as a researcher for the cure to her race's ailment. No, her failure went down to the root of her, to the essence of what she was; a female, and worthless now that she had failed again to bear fruit.

The medic dismissed the midwife, who had been summoned only as a courtesy to Da-kvar'di, a respectful acknowledgement of what she might have been. The midwife lingered after her dismissal, and walked over to Da-kvar'di's side. Da-kvar'di looked out the window near the table where she lay, her fingers still absently stroking her dead child's blood on her thighs.

"I am a failure."

She said it, and it was small and soft in the room. The midwife placed her large hand on Da-kvar'di's upper arm, squeezing it gently.

"All things happen for a reason," the midwife countered, her aged voice cracking.

"How can I believe that? How can I believe that?" The second time she said it, the dam broke, and suddenly the midwife was holding her as she screamed her grief, sobbing until her air was spent, and then sucking in lungfuls to weep aloud again. The midwife was stoic, but not stone-faced; there was a gentleness in her touch that quieted Da-kvar'di. Her grief was raw, pain-filled, but as the midwife stroked the damp strands of loose hair away from her temple, a new sense of peace filled her, and she looked up at the midwife. There was something there, an ancient power that pulsed golden behind the midwife's eyes, shining through her pupils and touching Da-kvar'di's cheek with light. It tingled and warmed where the light fell, and Da-kvar'di raised a bloody hand to her face, touching it in wonder. "Who are you?"

"Ask not what you already know, child." The words were triple-spoken, three voices as one that thrummed with divine energy; the air trembled around them as Paya's mask dissolved. Shards of pottery fell away, shattering on the stone floor, but Da-kvar'di hardly noticed, connected with the being of light emerging from Her clay shell on a level that mortal minds cannot understand.

"I am sorry that _this_ was necessary," the goddess said in her mind, and Da-kvar'di knew, and that part of her that was yet mortal wondered at the irony of being denied motherhood to become the vessel of a mother goddess. But the goddess was there again, and Da-kvar'di saw and knew with the breadth of an eternity of knowledge that no body could support both a fetus and a god.

"You are ready," Paya said, maiden, mother, crone all speaking at once. It was not a question, but a statement seeking confirmation. Da-kvar'di allowed herself a moment of weakness in the face of godhood. What if she didn't want to be the Matriarch? What if she was not strong enough? What if she could not—

And she stopped, for there in her mind's eye were all those that had come before her, the females of her race that were Matriarchs in ages past, and they all at once welcomed her in a torrent of joy and acceptance so strong that the yautja at last yielded to her fate and gave herself up to Paya. In an instant, the knowledge of millennia was shared with her, and her mind became only the most recent addition to a great Congress of females. Their experiences and knowledge became her own, and she became one with them, her mortality suspended at once.

And she saw, as the goddess took her body, that her womb was healed. She saw the medic appear at the door and get knocked away, blasted by the unfettered divinity in the room. She felt her body stretch and fill, like her skin was too tight, and she wondered if she might live through her possession. The light filled her, emerging from her fingertips in beams, seeping from her skin and mouth, pushing out of her skull with all the force of a volcanic eruption. A cry escaped her, and she collapsed, sure that she could not bear it another moment.

And as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Paya stood, curling Her fingers into fists, rubbing Her shoulders as She got to Her feet. The body was strong, despite its recent trauma, and it suited Her.

**xXx**

"And there is still no sign of a Matriarch?" Ren'da rumbled.

"It is not for lack of looking," Kvar'ye snapped back. "I am as eager to find her as you are."

"Which is to say, not at all," Ren'da scowled.

"Silence!" Tjat'le roared. "I will not tolerate this kind of bickering!"

The two Councilmen leaned back in their chairs, glaring daggers at each other, but Ren'da was the first to look away to the incensed Tjat'le, and Kvar'ye followed suit soon after.

"We are all tired and it has been a long week. But it is becoming more and more clear that Paya has yet to take a new avatar. Given that it has been a week since the Matriarch's death, we must look at this situation with an objective eye." Tjat'le turned to look at Noskor. "What is the longest time that we have gone without a Matriarch?"

Noskor blinked slowly, stroking one cheekbone with a forefinger. "If I recall correctly, three days after the funeral, Liege."

"Three days."

"Yes. The late Matriarch herself was that extreme occurrence." Noskor briefly related the previous Matriarch's ascendance, where Paya rooted herself in the attendant of the dead Matriarch in the very Council chambers they now occupied.

"And it is now the night of the third day. We must begin to consider the alternatives, unpleasant as they are." Tjat'le put both his hands on the triangular table and stood, leaning on them and piercing every member of the Council with his pale blue-green eyes.

"What kind of alternatives?" Bruyaun looked worried, as the fat yautja always did whenever there might be change involved.

"Well, we are now at the point where we must begin to consider that there may be no Matriarch."

Noskor raised the eyebrow over his blind eye. "That's going rather far, isn't it, Tjat'le?"

"We have reached the limits of our experience, Noskor. Many times, the new Matriarch was chosen long before the previous Matriarch died." The strain showed in Tjat'le's voice; the thought of continuing without Paya's avatar was startling, not because they could not make their own decisions, but because it would mean that their goddess had deserted them.

"What if she simply has not been found yet?" Ghanede spoke up. "There have been cases where a trigger was needed to awaken her fully."

"Right, like a question or something that would call up the Matriarch." Bruyaun's voice increased in volume as he seized on the idea. "We could go 'round and ask the females questions about Paya that only Paya would know."

"And how would _we_ know what only Paya would know?" Kvar'ye retorted.

"The question alone might be enough to rouse her," Ren'da responded.

"What if there is no response?" Bruyaun quaked, playing devil's advocate to his own idea. "What if there is no awakening?" He looked to Tjat'le for an answer.

Tjat'le looked directly at the nervous glutton, and the gravitas in his voice made his words resonate in the Council chamber. "Then we are on our own."

The doors of the Matriarch's chamber flew open, flapping on their hinges. Bruyaun was startled out of his chair, and it tumbled to the floor with a crash. A gust of air rolled into the Council chambers- it smelled like lightning. Noskor slowly stood, his fingertips dusting the edge of the table. Ren'da and Ghanede likewise stood, and the rest of the Council rose to their feet. A tall figure stood on the threshold, shadowed by the late hour.

"What's the meaning of this?" Bruyaun shouted. "This is a closed—"

He was abruptly cut off as his head vanished in an explosion of gore. Chunks of what had been Bruyaun's brain slid across the table, the sides of his skull clattering on the floor like empty shells. The gruesome corpse slumped as its balance was upset, and it landed in a heap on the ground, bent at odd angles, his heart continuing to pump blood out of his neck. Ren'da closed his eyes briefly, and then looked up.

Da-kvar'di stepped down into the room, naked save for a single diaphanous length of blue; a curtain from the Matriarch's parlor, torn down and wrapped around herself. Even through this, the black blood that was drying on her thighs and belly could be seen, the hands that held her raiment in place similarly coated with drying blood. She walked down among them, almost floating, for the air around her seemed to crackle and the trailing edge of her curtain hung in midair. Thtarok and Kvar'ye exchanged glances as she passed them.

Tjat'le bowed to her, bent at the waist. "My Lady," he said. "We have been waiting for your return." His voice was soft, humbled by the sudden and violent death of one of his Councilmen.

"I'm sure," she replied coolly. She turned her head, leveling a brutal gaze on Kvar'ye, and then Thtarok. Each of them blanched visibly, and Noskor watched the newly minted Matriarch narrow her eyes at them. Just when he began to expect that their brains would also turn to vapor, she turned back to the doors to her parlor, walking steadily back to the stairs.

"Call for my attendants," she commanded, stopping briefly by the ruined corpse of Bruyaun. Her mandibles flared in disgust. "And clean this worthless shit up."

**xXx**

They were through most of the winter now, and food was becoming still scarcer. Escthta ranged far afield almost every day to track and kill animals. He had not hunted for sustenance in several years, and doing so with snow thick on the ground was trying for him. But H'chak-di depended on it, so he did what he had to do. Large kills had made up the bulk of their meat during their first weeks in the boulder cave. Wood for fires was not a problem; the scar was littered with dead trees that had been drying out for a few years; they burned bright and hot once the snow's moisture had been evaporated.

The days ticked by with him having barely counted their passing. His first week there had been spent making their cave fit to live in. He had lashed together a screen for the cave entrance, threading needled branches through it until it was densely packed with evergreens. A bank of snow built up against this helped reduce the heat loss from their small home considerably. They had spent time similarly plugging what crevices they could find in the boulders around them. In the end, the cave was quite cozy, though it was overloaded with the smell of evergreens, and sometimes sticky with sap. Escthta would almost be sorry when they left at the first sign of spring.

The weeks they had spent here had been crowded with hunting during the days and doing small things to better their lot at night. H'chak-di had taken over the meals, for which he was grateful, although their supplies made almost all food bland. At last they had begun to season their food with ash from the fire, which gave them much needed salt. It was small, but even that had improved their lot. H'chak-di had also insisted on their chewing the evergreen leaves once it had been proven they were not toxic. She prepared an elixir of hot snowmelt and needles, and the resulting draught, though slightly bitter, had all but removed his chronic fatigue since their encampment. He suspected there was a compound in the needles that could only be released by heat, and his body made good use of it.

H'chak-di had tanned the hides of the first things he had hunted, flaying the blood and fat off of them as he showed her how it was done, and scraping them clean. Her constant attentions produced buttery-soft leathers that surprised Escthta. She did this for the next few kills, no matter how large or small, dutifully cleaning and tanning the hides and cutting small strips of leather to whipstitch them together. The scraps did not go to waste either; she used them to move hot things in the fire or for making small leather shoes. Sleeping furs were the first things she made, followed by pillows filled with what grasses she could scrounge from around the cave and the dead needles of trees. She had begun to collect long, straight pieces of wood, but for what purpose, he could not guess.

Their food and shelter needs met, their minds were left largely unattended, and so it happened that, when they were not half-dead of exhaustion, they sang and told stories. Escthta easily slipped back into the role of storyteller, only able to half-remember the songs and tales told on Syu'ne's ship. It seemed like a lifetime ago to him, and much of what he remembered didn't seem appropriate any more. He was different now from what he had been then, in more ways than one.

Their close quarters brought Escthta and H'chak-di's minds together like never before. Their time spent together forged what had been at best a tenuous link into a strong bond unlike any other. She anticipated his needs as easily as her own, and she took pains to satisfy them. On more than one occasion, a thought that had occurred to him several miles from their den was taken care of by the time he returned. Their minds were growing closer every day, and their conversations became a strange mix of yautja and human, when they had them. Many times, words were redundant.

These things played through Escthta's mind as he watched H'chak-di inch around the screen that hid the entrance to the cave. Her hair was in dreadlocks, although it was entirely not of her own doing; they had natted up for lack of care and she had reluctantly taken to them. Escthta was mildly amused that dreadlocks should be so time-consuming to keep polished and clean, and simultaneously the result of a lack of grooming. She smelled like smoke, and he took that to mean that the fire was banked against whatever time they might be gone. They wouldn't be able to stay out in the cold for very long, but he felt it was necessary for H'chak-di. She had grown increasingly irritable as the weeks wore on, especially as inclement weather forced them inside the cave for long periods of time.

"It's good to be out," she said, though she was wrapped up in furs. She looked up at the sky and made a face. "I wish it was sunny, though."  
"No, you don't. You'd be blinded." Escthta chuckled, taking her small hand and leading her through the maze of dead trees into the forest proper.

"I guess so." She kept close to him, and the austere trees pressed in on them, the silence of winter broken only by the crunch of their feet in the snow. The clouds, grey as they were, pulled away from the sun bit by bit. The emerging sunshine made the day almost pleasant, until a large sheet of snow slid off a branch with a loud flump. It startled them and they paused in their walking. Escthta glanced around nervously, scanning the trees around them for movement. Just as he found the still-moving branch from the first flump, a closer tree branch yielded up its load of snow, with an equally loud thump.

"Oh God, it was just the snow," H'chak-di said with a nervous laugh.

"It's melting," Escthta said, more than a little relieved, and then he realized what he had said. Melting? "How many weeks-"

"Eleven," she replied before he finished his sentence. "We must be getting near the end of this winter," she finished, speaking his thoughts before he could.

He looked back out at the whiteness, and another flump sounded, this one sounding far off.

"Spring," he said softly, and H'chak-di squeezed his hand lightly. He replied with a small squeeze of his own before leading the way again. She did not need to say it, but he knew she was thinking on it; they would be on the move again soon, and he hoped they would find the answers to the questions Hir'cyn created months ago.

They reached a glade in the evergreens and the blinding snow-glare made Escthta wince. H'chak-di, however, did not seem as put off by it as he did. She smiled up at him and trudged out a few paces from him, leaning over to the ground and picking up a large hunk of snow. She packed it in her hand and then turned and looked at him, light dancing in her eyes.

"You can't be serious," Escthta started, but the snowball hit him squarely in the chest, crackling on his mesh suit. She hooted victoriously, but his responding snowball nailed her in the face, and she choked and spluttered while he doubled over with laughter. She grinned at him and then packed several snowballs quickly, lobbing them at him one by one, missing with all but the last, which glanced off his shoulder. She started screeching when he packed together a large lump of snow and began to chase after her. Escthta ran her down in a few strides and planted the icy knot right on her head. He rubbed it into her hair for good measure and she fumed, giggling in spite of herself.

"That's not fair, you're faster than I am," she whined.

"Of course it's fair," he replied. "Besides, you started it."

"It was fun," H'chak-di protested. "That's the most fun I've had in weeks," she said, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Oh, you don't think we have enough fun, huh?" Escthta raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well, we're not in a fun situation," H'chak-di answered, squinting up at him. "But we shouldn't forget how to do it. Might save our lives," she added jokingly.

Escthta turned to look at the large boulder, whose uppermost edge he could barely see above the tops of the trees. "We should be getting back," he said.

"I guess it is getting a little cold out here," she admitted reluctantly. She began walking by Escthta, tugging at his hand as she passed him. When he didn't respond, she pulled harder, developing from concern into panic as his mind bled over into hers.

"Escthta?"

She couldn't smell it. Escthta opened his mouth as wide as he could, breathing in. He needed to know what it was, but couldn't move as his brain unfurled the meaning of the smell. The scent forced him into fear; he could not formulate a rational response. He felt hunted, pursued, and his legs ached to run, get away from the smell, whatever it was. It was fresh—no, it was _alive_— some kind of carnivore; it was huge.

He saw it out of the corner of his eyes and he howled a warning, something beyond words that spoke of fear and danger. She didn't see it. A blur of white clubbed H'chak-di aside with a sickening crunch and she crumpled to the ground.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _Onward, dear reader, it is not long._


	23. Mind of Clear Light

_See additional Author's Notes at the end._

**xXx**

"H'CHAK-DI!" Escthta screamed as she fell, though he hardly heard himself over the roar that shook his bones. A whimper escaped him as breath from a great mouth rushed over him, hot and nauseating. He fell in the snow, crawling toward H'chak-di, and he was almost there before another deafening roar flattened him to the ground. He rolled over on his back, looking at his attacker.

The beast was twice his height at the shoulder, some five meters tall, covered in longish white fur that was natty and yellowed under its short neck. The fur stopped short of its face and feet, which were covered in thin, pale scales. Large bony ridges jutted out over its eyes, protecting the deep sockets on either side of its long head. The snout was tipped with two slit-like nostrils side-by-side that worked continuously, taking in scent and processing it. Its mouth gaped open and a set of mandibles spread wide, each one edged with sharp fangs.

Escthta backpedaled from it, scooting away on his hands and feet like a crab. The snow formed a barrier behind him and he scrambled over it, getting to his feet and running to the treeline. The beast looked after him, squawking a warning at him before turning back to the fallen human. It leaned down, and Escthta heard it sniff her, huffling her scent in through that elongated snout. He saw its mouth open and an anguished shout tore from him as it leaned down to partake. "NO!"

The beast turned, dropping H'chak-di's leg back into place. Escthta breathed a sigh of relief; she wasn't eaten at all, maybe she was just stunned. If he could find a way to distract it for long enough, maybe he could grab her and get her moving, as long as the fear didn't take him over again. He watched the predator come close, hot breath fogging the winter air, and it bayed at him as he moved through the trees, moving around the edge of the clearing.

Its footfalls shook the earth underneath him, and more than once Escthta lost his footing, stumbling as the beast swung its large head at him. It used its skull like a bone club, knocking its prey off their feet so that it could deliver the killing blow. Escthta ran it into the trees, where its size was a disadvantage. It snarled in frustration as it realized its predicament, but Escthta did not stay to hear the rest; he doubled back faster than it could turn around between the trunks. He dashed across the clearing to H'chak-di's crumpled body and he rolled her over. Her eyes were closed, but to him, she still felt warm. He looked over his shoulder, and the beast was still trapped in the trees.

Escthta patted her cheek roughly, "H'chak-di, wake up, wake up!" Over his shoulder, the great animal was coming out of the trees and turning toward him, sibilant with rage.

"Wake up, dammit!" Not daring to waste another moment, he gathered her up as carefully as he could and began carrying her to the edge of the clearing. The beast began to charge him; the skull was thick and large, like a battering ram, and the mandibles…the realization hit him like a stone. He darted to the side and slid to a halt, H'chak-di's body curled into a sitting position in his arms. Unable to turn quickly, the colossus had to finish its charge and come around for another pass, but this time, Escthta knew it for what it was: a _weyk_, the top predator of his homeworld, roused early from hibernation by the days of thaw.

The _weyk_ charged at them, its mandibles wide and a horrific screech bursting out of its lungs. The fear, the smell of that terrible beast crept into his mind, and he was frozen again, unable to overcome the chemical response that paralyzed him. Escthta felt the vibrations of his hunter's approach, stronger and stronger still, and he looked up at the gaping maw and black mouth as it opened to scoop him inside. There was a flash of blackness in front of his eyes, as if the entire world went dark for the barest of instants. Sound faded into silence, though he could see the _weyk_ charging, still bearing down on them, a behemoth of death. The mouth passed through him, over him, inside him, and Escthta closed his eyes, waiting for the teeth to close down on him. But he realized even as he did so, that something was wrong, something was happening that was not of this world, and he opened his eyes, finding the _weyk_ nowhere to be seen. But the tracks, the disturbance the _weyk_'s charge left in the snow, lead right up and over him. The silence changed from a cottony feeling in his ears to the real silence of the forest, and he became distinctly aware of a wheezing behind him. He turned in the snow, clutching H'chak-di protectively.

The _weyk_ was collapsed in a heap, breathing hard. As it lay there, Escthta realized with a start that its neck was broken, snapped by the force of the impact at full speed. He gathered H'chak-di up against him and carried her off the bare ground, looking back only once at the heaped weyk and the small clouds of fog its breath made.

Kicking aside the screen, he carried her into their small den and laid her out on the furs, gently setting her head down on the pillow she had made. It wobbled to the side, and Escthta blinked back panic. He reached out and set her head back on the pillow, arranging it so it would stay there, and he felt the side of her neck for a pulse. It was there, but ever so faint! Her skin looked pale, even for her, and he rested his hand against her forehead, trying to feel for a temperature. Was she hot or cold? His hands were still frozen from the outdoors; he couldn't tell. He tugged the furs over her with shaking hands and went to stoke the fire.

Escthta sat, rubbing his hands over his face and temples, trying to push away the strain. Everything was going to be okay, it was going to be fine. He just needed to get her warmed up and taken care of. Something caught the corner of his eyes through his fingers, a shadow, and he turned his head to look at it. There was nothing there but a stack of firewood and kenneling, kept in the corner away from the fire. He blinked hard, but the dim light didn't help him resolve anything, and in exasperation, he went to the corner, snatching bits of wood and kenneling and stomping back to their fire, shoving them angrily in amongst the coals. The kenneling caught first and burned out uselessly without lighting the larger sticks, and Escthta was grudgingly forced to do it over again, this time carefully arranging the fuel so that all of it would catch.

_I must be warm enough now,_ he thought. He stood, walking the small space between the fire and where she lay. He laid his hand on her forehead, and frowned. She was chilled. A small noise of fear escaped him and he went to feel for her pulse.

"You can't save her, Escthta." The voice was deep, with an endless quality that made his insides do somersaults. He turned to find the speaker.

A yautja, hunkered down by the fire, poking at the coals with a stick. But this was no ordinary yautja, no wanderer who had happened upon their hovel. There was the aura of fate in this encounter, and Escthta looked at H'chak-di, feeling bile rise up in his throat.

"She must be saved," he stammered out, ashamed to hear his own voice drowned in weakness. "I need her."

"That is irrelevant," the other yautja said shortly, and he stabbed the fire with his stick.

"Who are you?" Escthta whispered, unable to even voice his worst fears.

"_That_ is also irrelevant." The yautja looked up at him for the first time, meeting his eyes directly with solid black orbs. "One who Speaks, you know who I am, and why I am here." And the other yautja stood upright.

He was as tall as Escthta, if not taller. His skin was so dark as to be almost black, save for his chest and belly; these were only a deep shade of brown. He was almost fully armored, but the armor was unlike any that Escthta had ever seen on any yautja, living or dead. Graceful curves of black metal dominated the plates on the sides of his chest, as well as his pauldrons and braces. His skirt was black as well, though shorter and edged with blacksilver thread. The tassets on his hips were made of skulls, and as Escthta looked closer, there were similarly grim tokens scattered all over his person. A necklace of fingerbones, a pouch at his waist made of the hide of yautja, sclerotic rings fitted over some of his dreadlocks, fangs and claws woven into his tress; the stranger was handsomely outfitted in the finery of death. He could be no other.

"Cetanu," Escthta stated plainly.

"Indeed," the god answered with a small grunt of satisfaction.

"You must help me," Escthta pleaded, looking over at the human that lay in the furs.

"I already have," Cetanu replied. Escthta saw the _weyk_ flash in front of his mind's eye and knew in an instant that it was no accident he had survived the beast's charge. Cetanu had… saved him?

"Could I not give my life for hers?" Escthta blurted out, and Cetanu was visibly surprised.

"You would give your life for a human," Cetanu murmured quietly. He turned to the human and walked up to her, ignoring the defensive posture Escthta sank into. "She must be a rare creature." He looked upon H'chak-di's blanched face for a few moments more, seemingly lost in thought, and then turned back to Escthta, as if suddenly remembering he was there. "Can't be done," he said brusquely.

Despair caught at Escthta's mind, tugging at him incessantly. "Is there nothing I can do?"

Cetanu walked back to the fire and hunkered down between it and Escthta. The crackle of burning wood filled the pause that yawned wide between them. "To save her? No, there is nothing. She bears the blessing of the Allmother, whom I ultimately serve, and whose will it be that I take her." Cetanu rolled a coal out of the fire and reached out, picking up the small ember in his bare hand, closing his black fingers around it. When he opened them, the brand was gone.

Escthta felt part of his mind shut down, disconnecting itself, and cold terror froze his heart with the knowledge of what just happened. "Why show yourself then, if it is not to help me!? Why torment me with the knowledge that I cannot save her from death!?" Escthta's voice cracked on the last word and he bowed his head, unwilling to let the god see his pain. Cetanu was quiet for long moments, so much that Escthta lifted his head to see if the god was still there. To his surprise, the death god was right in front of him, staring him directly in the face.

"Nothing comes without a price," Cetanu said smoothly, arching one eyebrow and seeming to smile, though in the flickering light, Escthta could not be sure. "Take care that it is one you can pay."

Escthta looked over at H'chak-di, at her now-lifeless body, and his eyes misted over. "I would pay any price," he wept.

Cetanu rose in front of the mortal, seeming to fill the entire cave, stretching into every crevice and cranny until the cavern was dark, and the fire's light was swallowed by the god's shadow. "Say it louder, so the universe can hear you," Cetanu's voice hissed from all directions.

"Yes," Escthta repeated without hesitating. "I will pay your price." A bargain was struck with the god, and the heavens rumbled their approval. Cetanu's head tilted back, listening to the thunder, and then he looked down again, an unholy cast to his features.

"Then prepare yourself, son of Thio-de," Cetanu replied gravely, "for real gods are paid in blood."

Faster than anything Escthta had ever encountered, Death moved forward; he was on top of him before Escthta even realized he had moved. His hands pinned Escthta against the cave floor, and many more hands emerged from the shadows to bind and restrain him. The grips were too tight to be believed, but Escthta realized with horror that it was the least of his troubles, screaming as he realized their aim.

The god resolutely held Escthta's head still as a shadowy hand spidered over his face, searching the hollows of his face. Escthta shrieked as the devil-hand opened his left eyelid and dug at him gingerly, pulling the eyeball free of the bony socket. Terror and pain took control of Escthta, but no amount of thrashing would free him or restore his blinded sight. Cetanu was unsympathetic, as were the hands of nether that held him fast. Murmuring softly in the language of the gods words that had not been spoken since Paya's time, Cetanu rubbed a foul-smelling balm into the open wound that had been Escthta's eye, ignoring the howls of agony that issued from his charge's throat. Death hummed softly as he worked and at last smoothed his thumb over the slack eyelid; the bleeding stopped immediately.

The god leaned away, opening the yautja-hide pouch at his waist and dropping the harvested eye inside. "Payment accepted," he said wryly, looking down at the heaving, shuddering chest of his subject. The shadows melted away, leaving Escthta free to move, though he found himself too weakened to do so.

"Can you sit up?"

Escthta whimpered, unable to move. The god knelt down next to him and grabbed his hand, jerking him up to a sitting position. There was no pain, Escthta realized, but his spirit was broken, and he gibbered quietly to himself.

"Open your eyes, son of Thio-de," Cetanu rumbled in a tone that brooked no opposition, and Escthta opened his right eye and then unclenched the left socket. The hold the fear had on him evaporated; to his shock, the left socket still saw with varying degrees of clarity, though it blurred at the edges. And not only that, but…

"H'chak-di," he said weakly, looking into the darkness, where he beheld her wraith next to the death god. She smiled at him and he felt his throat close from looking at her.

"You shouldn't worry about me, Escthta," she said softly, in a voice that drifted in and out, as if scattered by powerful wind. "There are much bigger things for you to worry about."

"But you…"

"She is right, Escthta," and Escthta looked at Cetanu, finding that he, too, had changed with the new vision, becoming a being wreathed with energy, his eyes giving off divine light. "Your people need you," he said.

"My people," Escthta repeated numbly, looking again at H'chak-di's face, the strange human face he had grown so used to, now in the care of the yautja god of Death. He shook his head in disbelief. Cetanu put his arm around the human, gathering her up in an intimate embrace, as one does a lover. She slowly faded from sight, although Escthta could see through his normal eye that Cetanu had not moved the entire time.

"You are taking her anyway," he stated blankly and Cetanu nodded.

"She is dead, and her soul is my property."

"What sort of help is this?" Escthta wondered aloud in a shaky voice. Grief began to take its toll as he realized fully that H'chak-di was gone. Cetanu did not answer immediately, and Escthta's confused appraisal of the death god's help quickly changed to a general questioning of his life as it had been, and now his life as it would be without H'chak-di. Escthta looked down at his hands, and his anger and sorrow coalesced; his fists clenched on the stone, powdering his claws against the basalt. "Why? Why her? Why me?"

Cetanu drew himself up and a thoughtful expression crossed his face before he responded. "You should ask my brother."

Escthta looked up. "Your brother?" But the death god had vanished, and his shadows were dissipating under the barrage of firelight. Escthta looked over at H'chak-di's body under the mountain of furs. Noiselessly, he inched to her side and threw them off of her, leaning his head down to her chest. There was no motion there, no rise-and-fall, and her skin was growing tepid. The organisms in her gut would soon begin to break her down, and he had no way to embalm her or otherwise protect her from the ravages of time. He sat back on his knees, looking at her corpse and shaking his head slowly. The longer he looked at her, the more his sadness consumed him, and he collapsed on her body in a heap, bitterly accusing himself of her death between his sobs.

A dull headache gathered behind his left eye as his body absorbed the sudden, brutal loss of vision; eyeballs ripped out were one kind of pain, but he had never been meant to see beyond this world and into the next. It seemed to Escthta a cruel trick for Cetanu to play, for not only could he see that H'chak-di was dead, but he had seen her spirit taken into Cetanu himself, and he knew without a doubt that she was gone and was never coming back.

Exhausted by the entire ordeal, Escthta sank into a fitful sleep next to her body, suffering again her loss as he awoke a few hours later and found death already at work on her, her cheeks sunken and the bottom of her body darkened as her blood settled out. Realizing at last that he had to prepare her for the afterlife, he undressed her completely and wrapped her in Hir'cyn's cloak, fastening the fabric over her with a pin from their pack. He cleared out one side of the cave and made a pallet for her out of evergreens, gently stretching her stiffening body out on it. He arranged her hands on her belly and tucked a single fan of needles under them.

Escthta worked without sleep or food. He searched out hundreds of stones outside, rubble from the avalanche, and when those were used up, he carried the stones back from several hundred yards in any direction, sealing her up in her small alcove. It was midway through the next day when he placed the last stone in the wall of her tomb and collapsed outside it into a sleep of pure fatigue, completely and utterly alone.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _For those of you that have stuck it out this far only to be disappointed, I am deeply sorry, but this was the plan from the very beginning. I will say right now that there are no resurrections, no miracles; she is gone, and that is the end of her part in this story. There are many who will be unhappy with me for this turn of events. Many may stop reading altogether. I understand if this is your choice, but first let me share with you something I read recently. _

_A well-known writing magazine recently shared tips on how to guarantee that the plot of whatever you are writing will not stagnate; they suggested using the three-act structure, since it worked so well for Greek drama. While writer's magazines are usually full of a bunch of feelgood hooey, the discussion of the end of the second act caught my eye: _

"_This darkest moment is when everything goes to ruin and we fear for the protagonist's life….the airplane is out of fuel, and the parachutes turn out to be 20 years old and made of rotting cloth, for example. But the protagonist prevails, surviving when we thought he was doomed. He puts the challenge behind him. Or so we think. **This is the beauty of the end of the second act: what feels like a finale is in fact a set-up to the third and final act.**" – Writer's Digest, Apr 2007, 68._

_If there are any of you out there keeping score on your allegory tablets, mark this one down: life is not promised. People are snatched from us every day, no matter how much or little they mean to us. These are some of the greatest challenges dealt to us by fate; the challenge to continue when we feel we have lost everything. It is how we rise to the challenges that life hands us that makes us into heroes. _


	24. With Ice For Comfort

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _See additional Author's Notes at the end_.

**xXx**

Escthta woke suddenly, his gasp loud in the small cave space. His stomach groaned, reminding him of his half-starved state, and he pressed a palm to it. His hands hurt, throbbing in a low, but insistent agony. He felt weak, his muscles seeming to tremble on their own in their frantic need for energy. Escthta shivered to stave off winter's yet icy grip, and he chafed his arms as he lifted his head.

He saw why he was cold; he had kicked aside the screen that protected the hole from frigid winds off the mountain. He saw H'chak-di's discarded body suit, a husk of the human she had been, in a heap on the floor. He saw her tomb, made by his own hands, each stone set in place and wedged against its neighbors. He looked at his hands, his claws split and blunted by rocks, dried black blood on each fingertip. He saw it all, but remembered doing none of it.

Numbly, he pushed himself up, wincing as his body aches became more pronounced in the cold. The fire had died out a long time ago, though there was the scarcest feel of heat from the ashes. He remade the fire in silence; the sounds of wood and ignition seemed loud and abrasive to him. Part of him wanted to simply sit in the quiet with H'chak-di, just the two of them, and let exposure do its work. But there was yet another part of him that went through the fire-making motions, drawing heat and light back into the cave, and Escthta despised himself for being able to feel heat and see light, where H'chak-di never would again.

Survivor's guilt was something usually limited to young warriors on their first hunt, a lingering feeling of malcontent when one of their friends was killed. There was a sense that all was not right with the world, that something in the machinery of the universe had sprung loose and thrown the natural order of things into chaos. There was no explanation of the disorder that eventually claimed all life, and so the malcontent and hurt helped to forge new warriors, hunters that healed over their wounds with ideas of honor and increased value after death.

Escthta paused and looked at the wall of stones he'd built to close off H'chak-di from this life. By his reckoning, it had been almost a day and a half since her death, although he had no way of knowing how long he had slept by her tomb. Soon the cave would stink of death. He had to be gone by then. He curled himself around the fire, using what furs had not been entombed with H'chak-di to cover himself.

When he woke the next morning, the cave was dark, barely touched by the faint blue light of pre-dawn outside. He made a face at the olfactory recognition of decay. It was small, but insistent, coating his mouthparts in a film of death, and he gagged as he realized again what it was, what must be going on behind that wall of stones. Water evaporated more slowly in cold air, but evaporated nonetheless, desiccating the body except for the moist guts. Muscles stiffened with rigor mortis now softened under the relentless attack of bacteria. Intestinal fauna ran amok, breaking down the walls of cilia that kept them from a bounty of decaying meat. Life persisted even now, for it was life that took apart the dead, that took sustenance from their bodies, and it continued without thought, the engine of biomass grinding through the grit and soft parts, breaking molecular bonds and returning elements to the earth.

Escthta's stomach churned uncertainly as he coaxed the fire back into flame, not sure what to make of its master's sudden neglect. He stood, eyes directed forward, though he didn't move with any real purpose. The pack was ready to go; H'chak-di had been drying thin strips of meat over the fire for weeks, padding their exile rations with whatever he could hunt. The improvised _boucan_ occupied several metal tins of food that sat neatly in the bottom of the pack. It seemed like so much wasted effort, so much food for just one person. Taking one of the tins, he collected some snow to melt. He should fill all the bladders he had with water; the water supply meant for two would give him longer between necessary stops to fill the skins.

Still feeling disgusted with himself, he folded up some of the tenderly worked leather into rolls, shoving them down in the bag. He would probably not have time to put together a makeshift bivouac, but the good intentions settled his mind. The skins were filled and nestled inside another set of furs.

Next, he dressed and armed himself, more fully than he had since they were first set down on that beach months ago. He turned the heating mesh on a low setting, mindful of how his activity would warm him up. The mask came next, and it felt claustrophobic on him; he had spent the last several weeks in a state of constant communication. He instantly hated how closed off he felt, but there was no better way to carry it, and he might actually need some of the information from the HUD. The wristblades and his spear were last, the spear lashed to the top of the pack. He didn't bother to kick dirt over the fire; it would die out on its own. With one more look to the wall he had made, he ducked his head out of the cave. The snow was melting in the warming sun, and he looked up to the pass between the mountains hopefully before beginning to trudge through the melt.

**xXx**

White-hot gold alloy crept out of the crucible; the metalsmith made sure that the mold was filled to the brim before nestling the crucible back in the furnace. That was the last piece he'd have to cast for this order, and he was thankful for it. It had nearly wiped out his backstock of precious metals. He'd had to melt down some of his own personal jewelry to meet the demands, but considering the customer, he could hardly refuse the order.

A'bunde's stomach growled and he ignored it for the third time in as many hours, despite the setting sun outside his window. He opened it, squinting at the bright red disc sinking slowly in the sky. A breeze chased up to his sill, and he breathed it in before turning and sitting down at his bench to resume his work on some of the smaller pieces. They excited him, being so different from the rank rings he was normally called upon to shape. Small and delicate, the tusk rings were slowly coming into being under his hands, etched with lacy filigree, with settings that would be studded with the smallest of gems. A finished ring sat in the tray off to the side, ready to be set with stones. A'bunde lowered his magnifying glass and set the unfinished ring in a clamp so he could more easily etch his designs into it.

As he worked, his hands skillfully guiding his tiny picks and scrapers, he found his mind turning to the part of his order he had not yet finished. He would need to solder these pieces together, and there was still the stone-setting to be done. And then there were the bracelets.

The order had been very specific, he mused, smoothing one of the filigree curls out with the tip of a file. As an artist and more importantly, as someone who designed jewelry to be worn in sets, he was very sensitive to how pieces looked together. Combining several colors of metal could be garish if done improperly. Any of the nacre gems would look out of place on something beset with gems of the earth. Rank rings that were for the same owner often came with a request for similar designs. They were artfully crafted components of an artfully crafted image. Even the most dull-witted hunters would acquire their own look and style, provided they lived long enough.

And that was why the bracelets, or more appropriately, the metal cuffs, stood out. They came with no samples of the designs they would be accompanying. Perhaps more telling to his mind was that each other pieces of the order had extensive instructions about motifs and shapes, but this came with only terse directions about size. Were they a gift for someone? Surely any yautja that could afford to wear these would have their own motifs that they wished incorporated. Perhaps they were for a slave to a female on the Broodworld?

He shook his head, moving away from the clamp and the filigree, looking at the unfinished bracelets. The gold, burnished bright, seemed to glow even in the dim lights of forge and sunset. They were simple and large; A'bun'de thought they were for a male, just by their very heft and shape. He looked at the intricate filigree work in his clamp, clearly destined for the new Matriarch, and then back at the bracelets, his face creased in consternation.

He wasn't one to meddle in the affairs of his clients, but he ached to know who the cuffs were for, if not for the lady.

**xXx**

From the seat on her dais, Paya stared icily at the councilmen across the room. She had succeeded in throwing the Council, if not the entire City, into an uproar with the procession of her plan. Thtarok, her former colleague, had blanched with panic, and even the blustery Kvar'ye had bowed to her demands. It was a heady feeling for any female, and she relished their submission to her will.

The melding of Da-kvar'di and Paya was not yet complete; the Allmother had chosen this vessel for her strength, intelligence and determination, one who would be more suited to administer a change in the regime. And there would be change, for Da-kvar'di was now privy to the goddess' plan, and she understood better now her role in it. Like a flash of light, her mind had been illuminated by divine knowledge, and she was contrite for the things she had done to thwart the march of time. As a mortal, she had sought to strive against the cosmos and the injustice perpetrated upon her people by their goddess. As an avatar, she now understood how futile and misguided her efforts had been. The part of her that was yet mortal wondered how much of her own life had been in the goddess' plans.

"Bruyaun's death is… unfortunate," she began. The councilmen stiffened, and she smiled at them, her tusks curving in a sinister arc. "But he was not so valuable that he could not be replaced."

"Without a mourning period?" Kvar'ye asked quietly, and Noskor and Ghanede traded glances at the velvet challenge.

"He has been given the burial he deserves, has he not?" Paya looked down at them and they did not reply. Bruyaun had been incinerated, with all the contents of his trophy walls, a mighty funeral pyre set alight, his body sizzling as the fat dripped off his blackening bones. Such a burial was from a time before skulls recorded a Hunter's honor and glory. It denied him the processionals accompanied with the entombment of a great Hunter, and was entirely below his station.

There was much about this Paya that unsettled them deeply. Though newly minted, she had grown into Da-kvar'di as a snake grows into new skin; she seemed more powerful than ever. The diaphanous robes were gone, for new raiment better suited her. She wore a scaled-skin cloak and plate armor that evoked the power of nearly mythical prey. The carapace of the previous Matriarch was discarded in favor of a diadem, a set of horned fins that swept up and away from her face. Gone were the intricate hair knots, for this Paya favored the dreadlocks of warriors. She was not simply the Allmother, but a warrior queen the likes of which had been absent from yautja society for millennia.

"Have you any suggestions for replacements?" Her question echoed in the large hall, but the Councilmen just looked nervously at one another.

"There are few yautja so qualified to hold such an honored position," Noskor said cautiously.

"Did her Excellency have a candidate in mind?" Ren'da ventured.

"Hir'cyn would make an excellent addition," Paya said without pause. "His trophy case is respectable, but what is more necessary is a keen intellect."

"I must advise against this choice," Kvar'ye said, blustering. "Hir'cyn is a most unorthodox-"

"I think it's a good choice," Tjat'le grunted, looking down at his hands, folded in front of him on the table. "Hir'cyn has a fair hand and is as well-traveled as any of us, as well as having certain crucial knowledge about the Psionic." He lifted his eyes to look at Thtarok for a moment before moving his gaze to Kvar'ye. "I do not trust we have seen the last of him," he breathed.

All eyes turned to the Matriarch, seeking knowledge of the Psionic in her face. She regarded them silently, her thoughts inscrutable. This unsettled them all further; the one thing that was worse than a silent Matriarch was one that had only just become silent.

Kvar'ye glowered at the head Councilman and then ground out, "Of course, I am not opposed to a certain amount of growth in the Council. Shall we put it to a vote?"

"All in favor of welcoming Hir'cyn as our fellow Councilman?" Tjat'le raised his hand as he finished speaking, and Ren'da and Ghanede slowly raised their hands to follow. Noskor raised his hand, which left Thtarok and Kvar'ye trading glances before lifting their own arms in reluctant support.

"Unanimous then," Paya said, with no small amount of smug approval in her voice as she looked at Kvar'ye. "I thank you."

"We shall consult him tomorrow," Noskor said, looking at Ren'da, who nodded.

"And the other matter I have tasked you with? The Psionic?" She looked at each of their faces, shrewdly searching them with more than just her eyes. Finally, she lit on Kvar'ye, sensing an opening. "You've searched the area but cannot find him?"

"Your pardon, Excellency, he has all but vanished." Kvar'ye said, hesitating a little in his speech.

"Even for an accomplished Hunter such as yourself?"

Kvar'ye bristled. "The snows have been heavy, Excellency." He stood slowly, drawing his fingertips over the table surface. "We have no way of knowing which way he headed once he was released, or if the human is-"

"The human no longer matters. She is dead," the Matriarch said flatly. Kvar'ye and Thtarok exchanged glances.

"Begging your pardon, Excellency, but if you know the human is dead, then…"

"Don't question me, Kvar'ye. Just because I know it does not mean I could tell you where it happened," she spat.

Kvar'ye stood up in indignation. "Even the best Hunter could not track prey gone by weeks past under a blanket of snow!" he raged. "What madness is this, that you would send us after an exile we condemned only months ago? What do you mean to do by bringing such a dangerous beast back here and flouting our authority? I will not stand for this! I will not-"

Paya raised one hand at him, and as she spoke, her armor seemed to shine and glow, though the portal overhead showed an overcast sky. Her hands, beautiful and terrible, traced an invisible path down his neck, and small bits of his adornment shattered on his person, a necklace of small skulls turning to powder in a puff of debris.

"How DARE you!" he screeched, but could not move from where he stood. The Matriarch's hand stopped and she smiled cruelly. "Do you think you can match me in single combat, Kvar'ye?" She jerked her hand, and a buckle at his shoulder snapped apart, dropping a pouch at his side. The buckle's smoking pieces rocked back and forth on the floor, filling the room with the hot smell of molten metal.

Kvar'ye howled with impotent rage and stalked out of the chamber, leaving the other Councilmen alone with the Matriarch. She lowered her arm and turned to Noskor, the retributive fire fading from her armor.

"I believe that you may have better success in tracking the Psionic, Noskor," she said slowly, too sweetly for him to feel comfortable.

"I did spend a few years mentoring him," Noskor offered, none too pleased with being the focus of her attention.

"Very good," she said, folding her gauntleted arms with a ring of metal. "Very good, indeed."

**xXx**

Escthta sat down heavily on a large, flat boulder, already anticipating a long swallow of water. He opened his pack and reached for the skin that had been closest to his body, cradling it to feel for ice. It was pleasantly warm, and he let his fingers sink between the folds for a moment before removing his mask. The water was warm and tasted of leather. He paused between gulps to look up at the pass, squinting against the bright, cloudless sky.

He was pleased with the progress he had made so far; the snow was new, but voluminous and fairly wet. Packing it under his feet had made a steep, but traversable incline. He suspected that the thinning air had slowed him considerably, but he judged the pass was maybe only an hour and a half of steady climbing away. He'd already spent one cold night bivouacked against a rock face, awakening to a sheet of snow covering the makeshift shelter.

Escthta examined the skin, which he had hung across his shoulders and over the pack as he hiked. The high sun had long ago dried whatever moisture had leeched into the leather during the night. He carefully folded and rolled the hide up, stowing it in his pack along with the skin of water. With a grunt, he shouldered the pack again and began hiking up to the pass.

The pass narrowed as he approached, crags looming on either side of Escthta. He stopped at the narrowing, his fast, shallow breathing fogging his mask. The thin air here made his lungs ache, and he took the opportunity to stop and look up at the peaks, which extended for hundreds of feet up on either side of him. He stumbled a bit, dizzy with the heights; he hurriedly looked back at his feet to regain his focus. The dizziness passed, and he pressed on.

The pass closed in, becoming a slit of a canyon that split the summit. Rock faces that were hundreds of yards apart drew together like the folds of a cloak, leaving a passage about ten yards wide that was largely free of snow. A weak breeze whistled mournfully between the rocks; the floor of the canyon was flat, and seemed unnaturally smooth in places. Escthta might have passed the cave by if he had not removed his mask to take in the scene with his natural eyesight.

The entrance was small, and might have only been a notch in the rock wall to the casual observer, but Escthta's left eye saw the shadow of what had been, the runic writing around the opening, the mostly decayed brazier that had once warded the chill away from the interior. He whipped his head around, looking for guards or occupants, before chuckling humorlessly to himself. Winter still pressed hard against the mountains; even if this was some kind of pilgrimage site, only a martyr would risk his life to come up here in snows like this.

Brushing away the snow and ice from the stone doorway exposed the chiseled characters, which Escthta did not recognize as being part of any yautja script or language. He exhaled loudly, looking down, as his heart plummeted into his stomach.

Escthta knew that if an exile could defeat a Councilman, he could win back his right to enter society. Many chose to buck an exile order and wreaked havoc as Bad Bloods rather than serve the sentence, which was death in all but name. Since most exile sentences were carried out on other worlds, it was unlikely that an exile would ever return to the City to challenge a Councilman. He couldn't remember specifics, but he knew there had been one case of an exile defeating a Hunter on a far-off planet and using his insertion pod to call back a Hunting ship; the ship retrieved him and bore him back to the homeworld, where he fought Tjat'le to a draw. Escthta had hoped that he might do the same, but that wish blew away with the flakes of snow he brushed from the doorway.

He moved forward and nudged the brittle remnants of the metal brazier with his foot before looking deeper into the cave. The passage was narrow, designed to provide a barricade against the cold. It wound around one wall and then another before opening into a chamber larger than he anticipated; it yawned black beyond his normal vision, but his left eye showed roughly circular columns, deeply engraved, lining a path to a room beyond. His right eye adjusted slowly, but it could add nothing to what his left saw.

Before him a short tunnel stretched out and ended in a circular room. The free-standing columns, hewn out of the surrounding rock, directed him down the tunnel toward the altar, with little space between them and the walls they lined. As he walked, he found the sconces, lining the walls behind the columns, and in the eye granted him by Cetanu, he saw them begin to flicker with phantom torchlight. Pale and green they burned, only for him. Escthta stilled, his breath caught in his throat. Dark heaps behind the pillars seemed to writhe in the dancing shadows, macabre caricatures of their living selves. Escthta looked away from them quickly, but within moments they became ethereal creatures of darkness that stood on two legs, lurching forward into the weak illumination of the torches, their husks left behind the pillars. He did not breathe, fear beating fast at his temples as he prepared himself for the possibility of combat.

They moved past him and through him, shades of former things that moved as if life had never ceased for them. After a moment, he was able to get accustomed to their nonexistence, breathing again slowly, though the momentary panic had drained his lungs of their air. He took another step forward, watching them as they moved into the circular room at the end of the path, splitting to follow the walls. Ghostly fire in sconces on the pillars themselves joined those on the wall in shedding wan light over the hushed cavern. Escthta set his pack down just inside the doorway, his mask next to it.

Wide, flat steps created a circular, sunken arena, dominated by the great altar at its center. As Escthta approached the altar, he noted its circular steps up around the side of it, sliding his fingertips along the pleasing roundness of the letters that adorned it. Smaller, steeper steps climbed up around the great altar, which had the shape of a shallow bowl. Escthta stood facing it, a small preparation surface to his right, where the tools of a priest might have once lain. The shadows, which were constantly crossing the arena, seemed not to think that the altar was there, or at least ignored it. Escthta looked up at the ceiling of the cavern, surprised to discover a white plug of snow and ice directly overhead, the altar positioned so that melt would fall directly into the bowl. He reached in to touch the bowl's bottom, rubbing his fingers in the powdery dust.

As he touched it, his left eye saw the altar burst with light and the shadows grew bright and gained form; they were somewhat shorter than he, with broad shoulders and stocky limbs. He closed his right eye, all but blind in the darkness of the cave, and watched with his left as the plug overhead melted, splashing into the bowl underneath, and then high and clear sunshine warming the black stone basin. The wraiths around him drew close to the altar, their paths increasingly smeared and blurred, but their luminous forms becoming ever more distinct.

One of them ascended the altar's steps; he watched as she solidified in his view, her hair gathered into loose braids, her priestly robes barely hiding her nudity. He jumped down as she walked up, moving into the ephemeral crowd that was gathering at the altar. She gloried in the sunlight as the star passed overhead, and purified the basin with fire. A small brand crumbled in an instant, and she painted symbols around the edge of the altar with a paste of ash. Braces of small animals and tender greenery appeared in the basin; blood pooled under them. Small fruits and then grains were nestled among the bodies and buds, while the priest exalted and continued the rituals.

And then, a shaft of sunlight pierced the cavern, falling directly on the offerings. The priest cast the basin into flame again, fur and grain burning fiercely. The shades around him knelt in supplication; the priest was frenzied, and he could nearly hear her shrieking in fervor as the sun shined down on her from its zenith. Then, the moment was over, the offerings burnt out. Small ghosts came forward to the altar and the priestess raised a blade to each of them and cut into their foreheads, pressing an ointment made of ash and blood from the offerings into the wounds. The marks burned on their foreheads, shining into Escthta's mind, and he knew them. Blooding marks.

He turned away from the altar, looking toward the door, grabbing his pack and mask, pausing to lay them outside the cave. He turned back into the cave, walking into the hallway, seeking one of the dark heaps behind a column. Escthta reached behind it, fumbling, until his hands closed over something round and leathery. He picked it up, surprised to find that it did not come away from the body, but instead carried the whole of it gingerly out into the light, where he finally opened his right eye.

The skin was yellowed, stretched taut over the crown, and the eyes were sunken and black, shriveled away centuries ago. He gently smoothed over the heavy brow, the places where hair had once grown, the mandibles twisted by decay and mummification in the mountain tomb. The Blooding mark was still visible, a faint tattoo in the center of the forehead. It was from no clan he recognized, but there could be no doubting it. Somehow this kind of Blooding had been completely forgotten, from a time before the Hunt was all that any yautja knew, from a time before the _kainde amedha_.

Escthta cradled the cold mummy for several minutes, memorizing its dead face and allowing himself a few moments of grief for lives lost. He chittered softly at it, the sounds of soothing that mothers made to their young, and then looked up at the sky; the sun was further along its path than he had realized. He carried the mummy gently back into the cave, settling it back into its resting place behind the column. He stepped back into the main ritual chamber, and the wraiths were dark and shadowy again, all but the priest, who was being helped down from the altar by an apprentice. She leaned heavily on him as they walked toward the back of the chamber, to a curtained-off room that Escthta hadn't noticed before.

She waved away the apprentice, and the apprentice became faint and indistinct as he left her side, running back to the altar; she alone remained lit. Escthta followed her into the room, feeling that the curtain had long ago disintegrated, though his left eye showed it intact. He moved through it after it fell closed behind the priest. The small room smelled of dust, though his left eye showed it meticulously kept. He thought he could scent a female now that he was looking at her, but he might have been imagining it.

Escthta watched her disrobe and remove the adornments of her office from her loosely braided hair, jewelry from her tusks. She was an earthy beauty with large lower tusks, her dark brown hide bearing the faintest of spots, her belly an enticing shade of chestnut. He could visually identify the signs of season on her, the fullness of her heat showing in her breasts, the way her vulva glistened even in the phantom torchlight. Even though he knew she was long dead, an instinct to breed her bloomed in his groin.

She seated herself on a cushion on the black stone floor, using a bone comb to smooth her hair. He watched her for a few moments more and nearly bit his tongue off when she looked directly at him and smiled, flaring her tusks. Her mouth moved, but he heard no sound. She bowed her head to him, her dark hair sliding over her bare shoulders, and then faded from his view, though the ghostly torches still burned.

Escthta's gaze fell upon the bone comb; he reached down to pick it up, surprised to feel it under his hand. It was smooth and cold, having weathered the ages well without drying out. After a moment of indecision, he bowed his head to the absent specter of the priest and walked slowly to the entrance of the cave. The shadowy vestiges had also vanished, and the fires doused themselves in his wake. Even when he looked behind himself with his Cetanu-gifted eye, he saw no light, no sign of the bodies and lives that had ended therein. He packed the comb in carefully, folding it in some furs and tucking the parcel to the side of his pack. He tightened his mandibles grimly. _The death god's gift was not entirely useless._ With a glance to the afternoon sun beginning to fall from its zenith overhead, he shouldered the pack and continued through the pass to the other side of the mountains.

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _To any of you that have returned after this unpardonably long hiatus, I thank you for your continued goodwill. I cannot promise any frequency to updates other than those allowed by my current lack of employment. Thanks to Chocobo Goddess for resuming the mantle of beta so readily, even in the midst of her moving house! _

_As always, feel free to send me an email or message with questions or comments. _


	25. Prelude to Ascension

_See Author's Notes at the end._ **  
**

**xXx**

Escthta leaned heavily on his back leg as he inched down the steep incline, keeping the edges of his feet perpendicular to the incline. The soil here was loose and rocky, dry on top but wet underneath. The treacherous slope threatened to give way underneath and pitch him into one of the numerous streams that seemed to issue from the very ground. They coursed down the hill, tying themselves in ribbons over the bottom of the valley, and when Escthta shaded his eyes and looked into the distance, he could trace the silvery glitter of water for miles down into the valley.

He looked up behind him, at the glacier that towered over its end moraine, the ice slashed with fissures near the top, and black with filth at the bottom. One of those blades of ice had nearly pitched him into the cold interior of the glacier, collapsing as he moved from one thin ice bridge to the next, each creaking with the weight of the thaw. The next had squealed as his toes found purchase, crumbling as he lunged for the one beyond. His claws scrabbled on the super-hard ice, and his heart leapt into his throat as they scraped uselessly down the glossy surface and he dropped into a world of blue shadow.

He hadn't realized until his scream ran out of air that he had not hit the bottom. He hung in mid air, his toes flexing out, trying to find a place to stand. Panting, he drew on his adrenaline, willing himself up out of the chasm, only half-surprised when he actually began to slowly float upward. He felt as if a great hand were lifting him up, supporting his unwieldy body on fingertips. He avoided looking down, concentrating on the pale blue sky overhead, only looking around when his feet cleared the edge of the void. With some effort, he delayed his shout of victory until he was fully over the solid expanse of ice that he had missed the first time.

Even now, as he hiked down from the glacier in the cirque, he didn't recognize the burgeoning power that seethed at the edge of his phantom eye's vision; when he turned his head to look at it directly, it moved and floated away, motes on the cold wind of the new spring.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn turned the holographic film over in his hands; though most holographic film was reusable, allowing different documents to be viewed on it at different times, this was a piece of engraved film. It would only ever hold one message, and he rubbed his temples as he read it over again, wondering what he should do with this… _gift_.

Rathde walked out of his quarters, his loincloth sticking to him where he hadn't dried himself thoroughly after the shower. The sand of the _kehrite_ was gone, though, as was his sulk; the younger Hunter had grown used to the feeling of winning and Hir'cyn had gotten a now-rare victory in the ring today. "Something wrong, Hir'cyn?"

Even his speech had grown familiar with time, shedding the fawning adoration of the slave caste and becoming warmer with respect and camaraderie. Hir'cyn rubbed one of his tusks absently as he thought over how far his young protégé had come in the past few months. His leg was fully healed, his sparring form back in peak condition after so many years of non-use. Rathde shook his tress, the soft sounds of his dreadlocks falling on his wet shoulders filling the too quiet air. He hadn't yet bound it up in the loose topknot of a scholar, something he had seen in the library and adopted as his own personal style.

Rathde padded over and took the holofilm out of Hir'cyn's hand without asking. Hir'cyn sighed, watching Rathde's eyes move nimbly down the film, widening and then narrowing at the words. He handed the film back without a word and walked over to the broadly plush seating near the large window that formed the outer wall of their quarters. He flopped down on the cushions unceremoniously, looking out the window. Hir'cyn stood, walking to stand next to him.

"You're not going to accept it, are you?" Rathde's voice was oddly flat.

Hir'cyn looked at Rathde, his lined face seeming more haggard than his age normally demanded. With a sigh, he said, "It is a matter of formality to _request_ that someone sit on the Council. In practice, no Elder turns down the," and he gestured with the writ as if it were a filthy rag, "summons."

"And you will not be the first?" Again, there was nothing in his words to indicate his mood.

A long silence stretched between them. A robotic car stopped on the avenue, some seven levels below them and an Elder left the building, climbing in and directing it toward the spacedocks. Finally, Hir'cyn sat down on the cushions, his legs almost seeming to collapse underneath him, limply tossing the holofilm down between them. "No, I will not."

"Good."

There was a satisfaction in that sharp reply that unnerved Hir'cyn somewhat; he was not looking forward to sitting on the Council and dealing with all the petty politics and squabbling that he was sure commanded their daily activities. He looked forward less to seeing Kvar'ye and Thtarok on a regular basis. He still had not quite forgiven the scientist for his behavior toward the little human, and he dearly hoped that she held no grudge against him for having cast them out onto an abandoned and rocky beach. He had done as the Matriarch had asked of him without question, without fail, as her trust required.

The Matriarch. He closed his eyes and saw her face again, first in the pale and weakened moments of her death and then in happier times, when the goddess had only just withdrawn her touch and she was vital and eager to mate for the sake of pleasure. Their trysts had been private and brief, quickly limited by the rapid aging of her body, but those happy weeks! He had experienced a joy unknown to him before her, a fullness of spirit that made him ache with her absence.

The sumcom politely chimed to let them know that a visitor was waiting outside the door.

Hir'cyn blinked, astonished to find his eyes misting over and walked over to the door. He took a moment to compose himself and then pressed the sumcom to greet his guest.

**xXx**

Noskor inclined his head as the door opened. "Good evening, Elder," he drawled, the milky globe of his blind eye twitching in its socket. Hir'cyn bowed slightly and then turned and walked back to the couch near a window, picking up the engraved holofilm and brandishing it accusingly at Noskor. "I assume you are here about this?"

The Councilman blinked, shrinking from the Council's writ almost imperceptibly. "If you have… concerns, I can address them, Hir'cyn."

"Does the Council mean to mock me with this invitation, Noskor?"

"Mock you?" Noskor's voice registered genuine surprise. "The Matriarch herself insisted that you be… considered for the opening in our ranks caused by the untimely demise of Bruyaun." Noskor could not keep the sarcasm from his voice, and Hir'cyn's face darkened.

"Paya herself called me to this service?"

"Yes."

Hir'cyn's hand flexed around the holofilm, curling it, but he said nothing.

Noskor arched an eyebrow, his blind right eye narrowing. "Take care that you do not make a hasty decision, Elder. I understand that these things take time to absorb and I ask," he lifted a hand to silence the angry protests that would surely issue from Hir'cyn's opening mouth, "that you take more time to consider it."

Noskor smiled gently and gestured to a cushioned chair. "May I?"

Hir'cyn scowled. "Of course, Liege."

Noskor sat and opened his mouth before seeming to recognize that Rathde was making no move to leave. He glanced at Hir'cyn, and was not entirely unsurprised to find the Elder's mandibles twitching in irritation, one tusk tapping against the other. Rather than insist that the former slave leave, he tucked a hand back behind his head to smooth his pale tress, a finger lingering on a very old rank ring.

"I am not, as you seem to think, here about the Council's summons to office," he began. "I am here—"and tenseness fluttered over his mandibles, unbidden, "about the Psionic."

"What do you want with him?" Rathde demanded. Noskor shot a sour look at him and then continued, "I have been charged, by the Allmother, to find him. Find him and bring him back."

Hir'cyn's mandibles flared wide for a few seconds in shock, and then anger. "And how can I _possibly_ help you in this matter, Liege?"

"You were the last to see him alive. I need to know where that was."

"As if it matters! Even you cannot track a quarry months gone under feet of snow."

"I have my ways, Elder." The words hung in the air, a heavy pendulum that swung against Hir'cyn's mind. _How could he possibly know how to find Escthta? _ And then, _could he actually find him? _Hir'cyn stood to fetch a piece of holofilm from a small tray on a table, and used a lightstylus to scribble down the coordinates, knowing without checking what they were. They were as clear to him now as they had been when Ren'da had given them to him. It had come with an understanding that the Matriarch had intervened directly and selected this location, this shore, this beach, as the point where the Psionic and his human companion would be abandoned to make his own way. Although Hir'cyn knew that exile killed yautja by exclusion, if the Matriarch had really wanted Escthta dead, she would have dropped him on some mostly-frozen crust of rock in the middle of nowhere.

"The shore of a great ocean. On the other side of this world," he said slowly, turning back to hold out the film towards the Councilman.

Noskor's blind eye widened slightly, but was quickly masked with a blink. "This world?"

"As Paya charged me, this world."

"That is… unorthodox." The bitterness twisted Noskor's tusks. _Of course it would be the homeworld. Of course._ He stood abruptly, taking the offered holofilm and tucking it in a pouch at his belt.

"Going so soon, Liege?" Rathde's voice dripped with barely disguised venom.

Noskor narrowed both eyes at Rathde and then turned to Hir'cyn. "If what you say is true, then it would be good for you to consider more carefully Escthta's situation before making your decision about joining the Council."

**xXx**

Noskor left the Elder's quarters with a knot in his stomach. He took out the holofilm again, his eyes moving over the coordinates with a piercing eye and an aim to memorize them. He was not intimately familiar with the geography of his homeworld, but then again, few were. Urgency drove his steps and he was pleased to find the car still waiting for him outside the building. If he could get there in time, he might be at least able to determine which direction they'd gone. A path inland would mean a more difficult hike up and over the mountains, with the added chance of death by avalanche. Were he able to make good time with the human in tow, they might be ready to cross the spine of the mountain belt by first thaw. _Well_, he thought, _at least the human's death might lengthen Escthta's strides._ Time was life and death both inside and outside the City; it was never more true than now.

Noskor had a small subspheric vessel readied, provisioned for short Hunting encampments in the loosening grip of winter, and armed with more than enough weaponry to deal with the native life. A Great Hunt would occasionally go out into the wilderness and return with some massive beast of mythic size and strength, but that had not happened in years, and it did not seem that it would happen again for many more. After all, the exciting Hunts took place off-world, where intelligent prey could be found; none dared stock the homeworld with _kainde amedha_. The worst he might face out in the wilds of the homeworld would be a _weyk_, and he dearly hoped that he would not encounter one still surly from hibernation. They were a match for a group of Hunters without the benefit of their notoriously bad tempers. A grouchy _weyk_ could ruin your day.

He began to call it "the expedition" in his mind. It made him short with servants, who wisely held their tongues, wary of his eye on them. Noskor was well aware of the stories about his blind eye that circulated through his household. Only half of them were true.

**xXx**

Escthta found the tailings of the road in the high foothills, the stones overturned, their edges like blades protruding from the ground. The uniformity of their size caught his attention; surely a rockslide would have great boulders, such as the one he'd sheltered under with H'chak-di? And their edges were smooth, rubbed round with water despite not being deposited in a meltwater channel.

He had stumbled blindly up the mountains, passing through them without a thought for counting the days. Escthta's otherworldly experience with the temple at the height of the mountain pass was adrift in a sea of time. Had it been days? Weeks? The glaciers on the other side were beginning their spring thaw, treacherously flowing down the mountainside, and he'd drifted across the white fields, spiderwebbed with crevasses and pitfalls, until now, in the high, wet foothills of this mountain range he'd begun to call _Dhi'tjau Kantra_, the Mountains of Prayer. There were few trees about, though plenty of scrub and thick barrelgrass, and the road stood out plainly against the greening of spring.

His curiosity about this river of rock was the first real interest he'd taken in his immediate future since she died. He followed it, not because he thought it might be a road, but because it suggested a place to go, a destination, and as much as he didn't want to admit it, he was alive where she was not, and carrying on where she was not. He was moving forward. It was simply someplace for him to go, so he went.

He picked his way down the melt-dark hills, following the undulating scales of the stone serpent until he found himself at the edge of a forest; the road went on into a wood, and the grasses and underbrush covered it completely.

Escthta felt the weight of his pack settle as he sighed. Following the road would not be an easy task. He walked to a large outcropping of stone, pitted with age and swept dead leaves from the smooth surface. Only after he had seated himself, his heels in the grass, did he realize that the rock was not only large, but perfectly round. He unshouldered his pack, stretching his shoulders as he leaned down to look at the stone. A plug of roots and grass shouldered up against the rock and he dug it away, finding a lip around the edge and then, a few feet away, a carefully chiseled threshold and some shallow depressions—mortises—for the placement of a door. Further examination revealed that some of the pockmarks in the stone were holes, augur-drilled in pairs and evenly spaced. He looked at the size of it, some four strides across by his reckoning, more than enough room.

He laid down, stretching his arms out and mentally measuring the size of the slab and comparing it to his own height. It was not hard for him to imagine a wooden guardpost surrounding him, the rafters of the small round hut supporting a simple hammock for its lone occupant, who would watch for invaders from the lands to the west, improbable though they might be, aching for his family in the valleys below. His mate had just given birth to his second son, but he knew this only from her letters that came by the infrequent hand of trade caravans. Escthta felt keenly the loneliness of the long-dead guard, stationed here on the edge of civilization—

With a sudden gasp, Escthta sat up, holding his hand to his temple. _The edge of civilization._ It rang in his mind, sonorous and lingering. He stood up and walked toward the forest's edge and looked down the road, shading his eyes. After a moment, he slowly closed his good eye, seeing through the eye granted him by the death god. His vision shimmered, as the air does over hot rock on a summer day. Trees and grasses slowly grew more distinct, the road seeming to fold its stones back into the earth as he watched. The avenue was not broad, but several paces on either side of it seemed to have been cleared of trees. He waited for someone to appear on the road, but no one came. He turned to look at the guardpost.

The building was a crude but effective shelter, with room for exactly one guard. Focus as he might, none of the smears of light in his second vision resolved into a soldier, though details within the guardpost became clearer. Small grass cages, used perhaps for some kind of courier animal, resolved themselves against the wall, and a threadbare scrap of red cloth blocked glare from one of two portholes. As a test, Escthta focused on it, reaching out with his mind to feel the cloth's history, to test the reality of its past. To his satisfaction, the cloth solidified, weaving itself more tightly and sprouting a simple decorative pattern, more like a tapestry now than the scrap he had originally seen.

As a last test, he bent his mind against the tapestry, willing it to be green, the green of grass stains and cooked leaves. He chose a green that would specifically be within the means of this nameless soldier to possess, within the means of his mate to weave. His vision shimmered again, but as it cleared, though he could distinctly see the hairs of animals threaded into the tapestry, it would not change to green, or any other color he could imagine. Reluctantly, he opened his other eye and willed the secondsight to cease. The hut and its tapestry faded and trees snapped into his vision. The cobbles heaved themselves back into disarray and the shimmer lifted completely.

The sun seemed unnaturally warm for this time of year. But he knew, now, where the road led, and that only a day's travel following the road to the east would take him to another, larger road. He unpacked a skin of water and a few strips of dried meat, gnawing on it thoughtfully. _Another road. Where will it go? Back to the City?_

Escthta shoved the question away and looked at the leathery meat in his hand. It would be a change when he began to hunt again, to have raw meat. It would be too early in the season for fruits or wild grains, but perhaps some eggs could be scavenged from a nest. His stores were still relatively full, but he had been marshaling them carefully. He leaned down and picked up a sturdy-looking branch that had weathered to a silvery grey color. The bark pulled away from the dry wood easily, coming off in sheets. With the edge of his _ki'cti-pa_, he scratched one mark deeply, across the grain. _First day beyond the mountains._ He tucked the stick away under the flap of his pack and began to follow the road to the east.

**xXx**

Hir'cyn unclasped his blue cloak, watching with a pang of guilt as a slave scurried over, unbidden, to collect the heap of fabric. He would not need it any more, and he could only hope that it would not end up in an incinerator. Ren'da settled its replacement under his pauldrons of office, a deep mauve with a tightly woven sheen, naturally produced in this color by a venomous insect as it moved through the canopies of trees on the homeworld. It was the rarest fabric in existence, woven entirely from this secreted thread and stronger than any metal. _I might need it to deflect any blades aimed between my shoulders, _Hir'cyn thought wryly.

Ren'da moved back to stand with the other Councilmen that stood in welcoming their newest member. Kvar'ye sulked, but at least he had not been involved in giving him a gift of office. Thtarok was quiet, his bruised throat having healed completely ages ago, but from what Hir'cyn had found out, his voice had not ever been the same.

Tjat'le walked to take Hir'cyn's elbow, guiding him to his new seat at the Council table, flanked by Ghanede and Noskor. Hir'cyn was rather relieved at this seating arrangement, although it meant looking directly at Kvar'ye.

"Welcome to the Council," Tjat'le said.

"Thank you, Liege," Hir'cyn responded formally, aware of Tjat'le's position as head of the Council. It was largely a position of power in name only, but on an occasion with such decorum, even small formalities had to be observed. With some satisfaction, Hir'cyn realized that he would never again have to call Kvar'ye or Thtarok 'lord'. He could not hide the smile that curved his tusks.

Tjat'le sagged into his chair, waving away the slave that held it out for him. "Now that Hir'cyn has been seated, we can declare this whole selection business over with." He saw Thtarok tense slightly, and Noskor's head bobbed for a moment, as if he was going to stand and then forgot himself.

With a small sigh of resignation, Tjat'le lifted one clawed hand and gestured at the door. "I'm sure we all have pressing matters to attend, if you wish to leave." Barely had the words left his mouth than Noskor and Thtarok both stood up abruptly, each heading for opposite doors of the Council's chambers and parting company without a word. Tjat'le lifted an eyebrow and looked at Kvar'ye, who had slowly gotten to his feet, smoothing his cloak.

"Liege," he said, with a small bow to Tjat'le, and then inclined his head toward the other Councilmen, leaving by the same door as Thtarok.

Tjat'le huffed slightly as they left. "At least there is not any urgent business to attend to." His blue-green eyes slid to Ren'da and Ghanede, who were in quiet discussion at the other end of the table, seemingly oblivious to the Head and the new Councilman.

"Care for a drink, Hir'cyn?"

"Certainly," he replied, standing as Tjat'le motioned for him to join him in a stroll. Hir'cyn nodded to the other two Councilmen, who inclined their heads in return, acknowledging him as their equal. There was something else brewing in Ren'da's golden brown eyes, some other scheme he was furtively tending with Ghanede, and Hir'cyn made a note to inquire about it later. With his presence on the Council, the abolition of the slave caste suddenly became a real possibility. It would have to be done carefully if it was to be done at all.

**xXx**

Noskor could barely contain his impatience as the ship approached the shore, its thrusters beating the surf into froth. The pilot had searched for several minutes for a location where the ground would not be too rocky for the landing gear. He eased the ship down with practiced skill and lowered the ramp when the tapping of claws on the deck finally got to him. Noskor was off the end of the ramp while the craft was still touching down.

The sea rolled in and out, leaving dark, foamy stains on the sand at the edge of the rocky shore. Tidepools sheltered small invertebrates that sucked themselves inside shells or spat water as Noskor hurried past. He was close to them, close to their trail, and if he moved too much, he might lose the only focus he had for tracking the Psionic and be awash in meaningless images from the countless centuries on this beach. Even knowing that, he could not slow his steps.

At last, he reached the edge of the water. The salt spray flecked the edge of his cloak, even though it was wound around his arm to hold it out of the way. Water rushed around his ankles and he dug his toes into the sand briefly, exhaling purposefully and closing his eyes to center his thoughts. Noskor opened his blind right eye and willed the vision to come.

The secondsight snapped his attention to a place further down the shore, only twenty paces away. He did not need to close the distance; their forms were very distinct. Hir'cyn, nearly as tall as Escthta, unfastened his cloak and swept it around the shoulders of the human. The human tugged it closer around her and her lips moved. Escthta had a dark, resigned look on his face, but it did little to diminish the spark that Noskor had seen in him, or rather, Seen in him.

It was a white-blue kernel of light that danced around him, as insects do around a flame. It alone was remarkable, as few he ever viewed had anything more than a look of smeared light over their features, an ethereal film that made them unmistakably mortal and earth-bound. The difficulty in using his gift came in interpreting what he saw.

The Matriarch herself had such a spark that floated around her, though it moved with purpose and direction compared to the flighty acrobatics that Escthta carried with him. Her predecessor had been accompanied by a spark of light as well. Noskor had thought it a mark of divinity until he made his first viewing of the new Matriarch while Paya was firmly rooted in her. It had left him wincing in pain for days at the memory of her brilliance; she was like looking at a star, a being of such intense and perfect fire that beholding it, even with a divine gift, was painful.

Cetanu had been an easy yautja to look at; his radiance was surprisingly gentle on the new eye given him by his benefactor. Though the pain of having his natural eye removed had left Noskor's stomach heaving, the god of death seemed nonplussed and gave his supplicant a few small words of instruction as he retched against the trunk of a tree.

"Do nothing but think of when you want to see or what you want to see. If you do so with a focused mind, you can see for years in any direction."

Cetanu had stayed with Noskor a while as his strength returned, easing his vision backward through time until the moment where he found the hidden communicator that would call the fallen Hunter's main ship. Then, in the blink of an eye, the god was gone, and even the secondsight would not reveal him.

Then the Bathyrian had been captured. The orbs of light that floated aimlessly around the Hunters that lay in the infirmary were barely enough to comment on—pale, unfocused slips of light that looked as if they might be scattered from a shiny surface. They groaned in agony, reached for friends that were dead, seemed to see monsters and hear voices in silent, empty rooms. He had not remarked on the wisps to the medics then. He did not want to end up under medical observation himself, especially not with his… unique ocular properties.

It came as no surprise to him when his former protégé manifested one after an intense arena battle at the last Council. He suspected that the Bathyrian might be involved, but his sad expectation had been only that his student would go mad like the rest, and the initial viewings of weakly luminescent shadows around Escthta's bandaged head suggested as much. But Escthta's wisp grew in brightness and focused itself to a pinpoint of light. It moved with intent and direction as Escthta's power grew and sharpened. There was, of course, no one with whom he could corroborate his suspicions, which made it all the more frustrating for him. _Was it because he's a Psionic? Or was there something more?_

Noskor's attention fell back to the scene that was playing out silently in front of him. Hir'cyn's specter turned and headed up an invisible ramp, fading from view. After some moments, the Psionic and the human conversed and then headed inland. Noskor set his tusks with a kind of grim determination and returned to the ship, where the pilot waited on the threshold of the ramp.

"We're going," Noskor said, and the pilot nodded, turning to his cockpit. "The City, my Liege?"

"Yes. Com ahead and let them know I'm returning." He paused for a moment and then added, "Have a car ready to take me to the Library."

"Yes, Liege." The ship's ramp folded up, and Noskor settled into his seat behind the pilot, fastening a harness around his shoulders and letting his head rest against the seat. The engines whined as they lifted off and began to gain altitude.

"Begging your pardon, Liege?"

"Yes?" Noskor's taut nerves had relaxed enough that snapping at the pilot's questions no longer seemed necessary.

"Did you find what you were looking for, Liege?"

Noskor chuckled, genuinely amused at the confusion in the pilot's voice. "Not yet. But I know where it is heading."

**xXx**

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** _I know it's been a long time, and I apologize. I have not forgotten this world, and there is much still to tell. If you're still with me, I won't stop telling it, even if it takes me a while. _

_I am also beginning to edit and streamline earlier chapters. This fic has been "in progress" for six years now, and many of the reasons I initially began to tell this story are either no longer important or completely wrong in the face of how the story has changed. You'll recall that initially Cthinde was supposed to be the hero of this story, but Escthta's story was simply more interesting, and the change from a focus on Cthinde and his Clan to Escthta and his power is too abrupt, in my mind, to let pass. Most of the things that I will change are to bring earlier chapters in line with later developments; most of them are small continuity errors that will be corrected to present a more coherent world.  
_

_Thanks to Chocobo Goddess, who has again stepped up and beta'd this chapter for me on short notice. _


	26. Road to the East

They were large enough to be worth stealing; black, oblong and hard-shelled, each egg filled a goodly portion of his palm. It hadn't even occurred to him to savage the nests of the leathery creatures that squawked at him, their mandibles partially fused to create a larger, crueler mouth. He'd climbed up in a tree for a better view of the valley as it stretched out in front of him, to get the lay of the land and the general direction his road would take him. The eggs were an unexpected, but not unwelcome, addition to his diet.

After a moment of deliberation over what to do with his ill-gotten breakfast, he decided to clip the narrower end with his ki'ctipa. Clear, pinkish fluid oozed over the fingers of his other hand, and he slung his blades clean of the excess before turning his attention to the contents. An investigatory sniff piqued his interest; it smelled warm and bloody. The early sun revealed little of the dark interior, but by turning it this way and that, he was able to ascertain the presence of a yolk sac. Escthta tilted his head back and poured the egg into his open mouth, catching a flash of dark green out of the corner of his eye. It slid past his tongue and down his throat, vaguely metallic and alkaline. Cooking them couldn't hurt.

Today, or perhaps tomorrow, his feet would carry him to a large, broad road, which he could already see down in the valley. He didn't dare hope that it would lead him to the City. The Road itself was a destination, and if he was happier this morning than he had been in weeks, it was because he felt like the end of his journey was nearer than it had ever been before.

**xXx**

The subspheric ship had barely stopped at his residence before Noskor jumped out, shielding his eyes against the whipping wind. A servant stood at the doors to the landing pad, one hand pressed to his ear to muffle the whine of the engines, the other offering him a steaming towel. Noskor snatched it from the platter, hurrying indoors. His majordomo, Irraka, was waiting for him, and quickened his step to match that of his master as they moved through the halls.

"We are glad to see you back, my Liege," Irraka intoned.

"Are you?" Noskor replied distractedly. He lobbed the towel at a passing servant, who managed to catch it and still show deference.

"Certainly, my Liege."

"Well, I'm going out again," Noskor snapped. His majordomo didn't immediately reply; the hesitation was nearly imperceptible, but to Noskor, it yawned wide open before being clipped with a "Yes, Liege."

Noskor stopped suddenly, looking at Irraka, who met his gaze, his hands folded in submission. Noskor thought he detected a note of defiance from the servant, but as he peered closer at him, the head of his household cast down his eyes demurely. Noskor chuffed softly.

"Your thoughts?" he asked, before continuing to head to the street, where a car would be waiting.

"My thoughts are inconsequential, Liege," Irraka replied.

"Yet, you have them," Noskor countered, as they rounded a corner. "Share them with me."

"If you insist. I fear for my Liege's welfare if he continues to rush about without taking proper meals," Irraka said coolly.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, Liege."

They came to the street, where a robotic car waited obediently. "I should be at the Library for only a few hours." Irraka nodded crisply. Noskor wrenched the handle to the side and slid in on the plush seats. The door slid shut silently, and the car pulled away at a measured speed, heading for the Library. The winter sun was already in decline, and Irraka shaded his eyes, watching until the car disappeared between buildings and then turned and walked back into his master's house.

**xXx**

Da'kvar-di settled back on her pillows, motioning for her handmaiden to leave. The aged yautja bowed out, drawing the curtains around the bed and shutting the door with a muffled thud. Da'kvar-di was left alone, staring at the soft starlight that streamed through the skylights. It was good that the handmaiden could not see the worry in her face.

Paya had not come again today. This was the third day in a row that she had not known the goddess, the third day that her being had not been filled and stretched by Her immortal wisdom, the third day that the Host of Mothers who came before her had been silent.

Occasionally the link between god and avatar shifted as the god's attention was required elsewhere; Da'kvar-di knew when Paya was absent as she knew when someone stopped paying attention. This was the longest such 'shift' she had yet endured, and she ached for conversation. No, not conversation, but the divine warmth that she had brought with her, the endless murmuring and whispering of the Mothers, the security and confidence that came with eons of maternal experience.

The link between them twitched and shifted again, and she felt her body warming and eyes sharpening, signs of the goddess' imminent return. The Host of Mothers and Paya entered her all at once, leaving Da'kvar-di breathless, as if punched in the gut. Paya was their guiding force, a director of an orchestra of ancient knowledge and femininity, necessary for songs to be sung, words to be spoken. They spoke as a chorus, each voice distinct but part of the whole.

_We have returned._

Da'kvar-di breathed out, a sigh of relief. The mindspeak was still new to her, and she found herself needing the assistance of her mouth. Her tusks twitched as she soundlessly formed words to the women inside her mind. "I have been waiting for you. I missed you."

The link moved, and she felt the Host hesitate within her. The goddess did not explicitly owe her an explanation; gods never do. However, there was a crackle to her presence, an excitement of the conductor in anticipation of a great swell in the music. Joy and exhilaration washed over Da'kvar-di, bathing her in the ecstasy of the goddess.

_We went to visit our son. _

Our son. Da'kvar-di could not hide the small complaint of grief that escaped her. The tiny mewl echoed in the empty room, and the Host of Mothers hushed. Da'kvar-di felt the goddess' focus on her.

"Forgive me, Mother."

_You doubt yourself still? _

"I do not know what I can offer to the Mothers, to You, if I have not…" Her voice tightened into a sob and she bit it back, raising a hand to her mouth.

The Host of Mothers murmured, and with Paya, they enfolded her in their sincere warmth.

_We have not given you time to grieve. For a life unlived. _

Da'kvar-di shook her head and turned on her side, pressing her head into the pillow. A life unlived. A fierce motherhood that she would never know, a lifetime of science that would she would never do. In time, she thought she could think of the entire race of yautja as her children, even though she had never delivered a full-term child herself. It wasn't that she was not grateful or honored to be the avatar of a goddess, but that it demanded so much from her and so much from the dreams she'd had for herself and her young.

_Take this time for yourself now. Our son will return and you must stand with him. _

Cetanu? The god of death would walk among yautja and take an avatar, as the Allmother did? Would there be a war?

War. The word was inaccessible to her, the meaning of 'war' divided in gravity into 'battle' and then 'skirmish', then 'rivalry' and then 'challenge'. The word meant so many challenges that they would go uncounted, so many skirmishes that entire Clans would cease to be. The concept was so large to her as to be nearly meaningless. And yet, walking death could mean only that her people would die in the streets, their deaths innumerable. Silence stretched in Da'kvar-di's mind, unbroken except for the thunder of her heart in her ears.

_Selachi's return is inevitable. War is not. _

**xXx**

There were few merchants or military that traveled the Road. Their presence was marked by the phalanx of warriors that occasionally marched into view, or a shaded palanquin that proceeded lazily past him, its occupant veiled. Most of the travelers were peasants or tradesmen. They walked by, shouldering their packs or balancing them against the forward momentum of their bodies. The fact that all of these yautja died thousands of years ago didn't stop Escthta from getting caught up in the drama of their lives, brief and desperate, right in front of his eyes.

The young mother and her child was the first pair he followed for any distance. The mother's face was lined, even though her tusks were bright and sharp. Her spurs had been removed or filed down; he couldn't tell under all the dirt on her feet. She was shorter than he, a petite female that might be passed over for a mightier partner during Breeding. Her hair was tied back in a simple, unattractive queue. The youngling that walked with her was genderless, its head covered and bent down. The two clasped their hands tightly together, and the young one never tugged at the mother, never asked to be carried. It stumbled once, landing on the packed dirt and cobblestone road. The mother turned in place, watching the child get to its feet, brushing away the dust of the road and joining her again. She took its hand and they resumed walking, their steps no faster or slower than before.

This constant use of his secondsight wore at him, and when he sat to rest his eyes, they passed around the curve of the mountain road, their ghostly forms fading away. Escthta thought about them often as he rested his eyes, reclining under a tree, the dappled-light of spring sunshine warming him. He dozed off for an hour or so, with the embankment of the mountain road as his pillow, dreaming of yautja dead for thousands of years.

**xXx**

Noskor strode into the Library, his cape pulled around him to protect him from the chill of the outdoors. The statue of Pthor'da towered over the few yautja that milled about in the rotunda, his great stylus and scroll nearly the size of a yautja themselves. The clerestory windows near the top of the dome admitted the dying rays of the sun into the interior, burnishing the simple stone walls a rich gold. A Librarian stood at his lectern, thumbing through a book. He seemed to have not noticed Noskor's presence, and turned a page, one of his tusks flexing thoughtfully.

"I need to see some maps," Noskor demanded, watching the Librarian take in his mauve mantle of office and his blinded eye. It had the effect of speeding the aged yautja's movements, but he did not show any fear of the Councilman, and that irritated Noskor further.

"Of course, my Liege," he said, placing a hide bookmark in the tome and closing it with a creak. "What planet were you looking for?" The Librarian's eyes met his, both of them, and did not flinch.

"This one."

The slap of the Librarian's sandals as he moved away from the lectern filled the dome, punctuated with the occasional clink of keys against each other. "Planning a _weyk_ hunt, my Liege?"

Noskor didn't answer. The Librarian didn't need to know what was going on, at least not yet. He might have to bring a cartographer into his confidence. As things were now, he wanted to keep the number of inquisitive minds to a minimum.

The librarian stopped and conversed in low tones with another robed figure. Noskor waited impatiently, and then looked expectantly at the clerk as his companion moved off. "Well?"

"I have sent for Taren, my Liege."

"And he is?"

"Our most respected cartographer. He will be able to guide you to the maps you seek." The Librarian's voice was subtle and knowing. Noskor nodded smartly, folding his hands behind his back, and walked over to inspect the marbled walls. Minutes passed, and a group of yautja broke apart, some returning to the stacks, and others leaving. Noskor was about to ask if they were going to continue to keep him waiting when a door creaked open and sound of a limping step entered the dome. Noskor turned, looking at the new arrival with an appraising eye. The cartographer was slightly bent at the waist, grey-headed with the simple topknot of his brotherhood, and the brown robes of a full Librarian. His eyes were a clear, unusual blue, piercing and intense. "My Liege, you have sent for me?"

"Are you Taren, the cartographer?"

"Yes, my Liege. How can I help you?"

"I need to see some maps. I was informed that your expertise would be helpful." Noskor unfolded his hands from behind his back and adjusted the leather cuffs around his forearms, looking at the cartographer from under his brow.

"Well, that all depends, my Liege. I have expertise on several systems, each of which might be suitable for a hunt worthy of your… stature."

"I'm not looking for an off-world hunt."

The cartographer's eyes sharpened and he motioned toward the hall he'd entered from. "I believe that I may be able to help you, yes, my Liege. This way," and he began walking into the darkness of the hallway. Noskor's eye took time to adjust, and until his vision grew accustomed to the darkness, he blindly followed the old Librarian. The musty smell of old paper and hide filled his mouth, an occasional whiff of glue and the creaking of old wooden chairs issued forth from behind the closed doors on either side of them.

"Where are we going?"

Taren's pace did not alter, but he twisted slightly to look at Noskor. "We hardly ever get visitors of your caliber here, you know," he said conversationally, before turning his face forward again with a heavy sigh. "It is an old man's pursuit."

"What is?" They stopped in front of an unassuming metal door halfway down the hall. A retinal scan at the terminal nearby was insufficient to access this collection. A Librarian's escort would be required to go further.

"Knowledge, my Liege," Taren replied, pausing in front of the lock to pull keys from his belt. The keys were oversized, with ornate heads and complex blades. "Knowledge of the past, and of the future." He grunted these last words, turning the large black key in a stiff lock. The tumblers whirled, the lock mechanism thundering in the silence, and the door opened inward.

Taren replaced the keys at his belt and placed a knobby hand on the door, pushing it open so that Noskor could follow behind him. As Noskor passed through, Taren turned to secure the door behind them. Noskor lifted one eyebrow appreciatively at the recess the door swung into; it was at least a hand thick. The walls and floors changed from clean, shiny stone to a darker, muddier stone, dull in appearance. Another long hallway stretched out in front of them and a dark staircase descended into the bowels of the Library to his right.

"This way, my Liege," Taren said, taking the handrail and shuffling down the stairs, and Noskor followed suit. The wood was soft under his hand, polished by years of use, and practically necessary on the small, steep staircase. Down they went, each landing lit with small footlights.

"This seems an awful long way down," he grumbled.

"It is the maps, of course," Taren huffed. "Sudden changes in temperature or moisture content damage them, so we control the climate carefully."

Noskor sensed something hidden in the older yautja's words. "Control the climate? Or control access?" As he looked up, the lights trailed out after them; the landing above him was completely dark.

"The climate, I assure you," Taren replied. "Although," he said, finally stepping away from the stairs onto a landing, "We do not often get visitors this far down. Few yautja have need of this highly specialized knowledge." The staircase continued down into the darkness, and the dim lighting held steady around them.

"Take this, my Liege," Taren said, offering him a handtorch from a charging rack on the landing. It flickered into life as he wrapped his fingers around it, and he stepped forward into the hallway. Only a few doors this time before Taren stopped again before a terminal: the retinal scan powered up and took Taren's eyeprint before the door in front of them slid to the side. A small, dry breeze issued forth and Taren gestured for Noskor to step inside, and Noskor shone his handtorch around the space he stepped into, a large, round room with an inlaid stone floor. Several doorways lined the room, and Taren walked over to one of them, knowing his path despite none of the doorways being labeled. He fumbled with his keys, turning to hold them in the light. Noskor held his up for Taren to see better, and the older yautja breathed a thanks. "We didn't extend the lighting down here," he said as he pushed the key into the lock and turned it.

"The climate?" Noskor asked with a wry bend to his tusks.

Taren paused as he opened the door, his tusks curving in a small smile. "But of course, my Liege."

The room beyond was large, and small footlights flared to life as they stepped in. Taren's quick hand movements at a control panel near the door brought up the main lights at the workbench just inside the door and then at the work area just beyond. Noskor squinted at the lamps, hung suspended from the ceiling over a large table. Strewn across the surface were sacks of sand to weigh down pages, a compass, a straight edge and other items. Dim lights powered up through the rest of the storage room, revealing cabinet after cabinet of flat, thin shelves, and a few racks of rolled up scrolls beyond them.

"Now, then, what part of this planet were you interested in, my Liege?" Taren said, laying his handtorch on top of a pile of papers near the edge of the workbench and picking up one large, dog-eared scroll. "I hear the mountains to the west have a large population of _weyk_ these days." He opened the scroll, smoothing it over the table, and tossed the sacks of sand so they anchored the corners.

Noskor moved closer, standing his handtorch on the table, and easing onto a creaky stool. "Where are we on this map?"

Taren grunted and then picked up a stylus, this one fitted to produce a soft mark, and then peered at the map and the five continents. "Here, my Liege," he said, making a small mark on the largest continent that stretched across the globe from the cold north to the snow-packed south.

Noskor hesitated a bit before pulling a small piece of holofilm from his belt. "And these coordinates? Where would they be?"

Taren took out a pair of spectacles and held the holofilm out to read it at the length of his arm, rather than using the scaling knob. Noskor could not help but smile a little; Librarians were indeed famous for their idiosyncracies, and Taren was no different. Taren then picked up the straightedge and made two faint lines that intersected on the western coast of the greatest continent. "Here."

Beyond the forests that surrounded the City, across the plains and desert scrubland, across the jungles and dense forest to the north, across the alpine meadows and the mountains and then down into the piedmont and the islands at range, where the water met the land, Noskor's eye traveled the space between the City and where Escthta and his human had been cast into exile. Any other exile might have merely settled into a quiet lonely life, living out the rest of his life half-mad and malnourished, but Escthta had been left with something to live for, Noskor thought with a twist in his mandibles like disgust. It was a mighty distance for anyone to travel on foot. Noskor stroked one tusk thoughtfully.

"You are not hunting _weyk_, are you?"

Noskor shook his head, his tress clinking slightly with the rank rings in his hair. "I am not."

"What do you hunt, if I may inquire?"

"A yautja."

"You mean the young exile."

"I do." Noskor narrowed his eyes. "How did you know about him?"

"Oh, we get all kinds here, my Liege," Taren said airily. "Some of them leave their tusks more unfastened than they ought to." He paused for a moment and then asked, "Was it not enough that he should be exiled, my Liege?"

Noskor heard it, the supplication in the old yautja's voice, in the use of his title. "I am afraid you misunderstand my intent." He slipped the holofilm into the pouch at his belt. "I need to see maps that span between here and there."

"What kind of maps?"

"Surface elevations, geologic maps, landmarks, old political maps, trade routes- anything you have between here and there."

"If you'll forgive me, that will take some time to gather together-" he stopped as Noskor stood.

"Very well. I will return in three days' time. Will that be enough?"

"Certainly, my Liege," Taren replied.

**xXx**

The road he followed wound around hills, and then clung to the sides of the mountains, never venturing down into the U-shaped valleys; the road struck east, so he had no reason to. The mountains went on and on, stretching far to the north and south, an impenetrable wall of rock dividing the land. Rarely, he could see between the mountains, but the haze hid most detail from him, even on a sunny day like today. The lands beyond the final bulwark of mountains were indistinct and dark, perhaps not yet into the full flush of spring.

The end of the road brought him up sharply; a scar where a massive rockfall scraped the ancient road off the mountain and into the valley below. After stopping to stare dumbly at the place where the cobbles disappeared, he turned his gaze across the valley. A thin ribbon of silver wound across the bottom of the valley, a stream or river, rushing youthfully to the north. In the toes of the mountain beyond it, only dense, old-growth forest. A brief walk to the other side showed no sign of the road: no cobbles, no tailings. The road simply vanished. _No sign of a road that way either. I'll have to go over the hard way. _

The landslide scar was steep and newly-treed, compared to the ancient forest that surrounded it. It was easy going for his long legs, and he found that he enjoyed being off the road. It had cemented his thinking too much lately, following the road. Making his way through the plush undergrowth gave him new appreciation for this, his world. The massive ferns that lived beneath the larger trees stretched their fronds out to gather up the weak light that the overcanopy admitted, and where a clearing might be found, small carpets of moss and roundleaves blanketed everything in green. Some trees downed in the landslide still lay as they fell, their roots in the air, their carcasses grey and rotten, and the mosses and fungus grew on them as well.

He reached the floor of the valley in half a day's easy walking, and turned to look up at the road, walking backwards and shading his eyes against the glare. He could pick out parts of it where it clung to an exposed cliff and where it ended with the landslide, but the rest of it was hidden by the forest.

The stream had a rocky bed and swift current, sweeping off to the northern end of the valley. The water was cold and clear, and the hollow reeds of water plants bent under the endless push of the water towards the sea. He hadn't seen liquid water flowing like this in weeks, obtaining most of his moisture from blood, melted snow and small springs in the mountains. Suddenly aware of his own body odor, he searched in the reeds until he came up with a large rhizome, a bent and grizzled old growth. He snapped a knob of the root off, and sniffed it experimentally. It was fibrous, with a sharp smell, and began to bubble encouragingly as he rubbed it in his palm.

Escthta shucked his gear on a dry pile of rocks and waded until the water was up to his thighs before submerging himself. The icy water shocked his naked body and he burst through the surface with a whoop. Breaking off the green leaves, he slit the root in two with his nails. One half he used to scour his legs and arms, trying to remove parasites and dirt from his skin. Another bracing plunge, and he used the second half of the root for a more thorough bath, scrubbing his chest and belly, twisting to lather his shoulders and backside. A herd of prey animals paused upstream as he yawped and hollered at the coldness of the water, and Escthta laughed in spite of himself and beat the river with his fist, splashing water in their direction. They returned to pulling up small, tender reeds with their grasping mouths, and Escthta, still grinning, reached up to thread the soapy root through his locks, working his fingertips down to the skin between them. As he finished, he threw the root halves into the field and dunked himself one final time.

A short doze on a sun-warmed rock later, he dressed himself and refilled his water supplies. The day was nearly done for him, but one indolent afternoon in a few weeks' worth of steady traveling was well-deserved. A quick inspection of the banks of the river revealed that his bath had a second, unintended effect: several fish washed up on the rocks, their gills moving feebly in low, rocky pools. He had not had fish in ages, since well before his exile. He collected them up: he had enough to eat this evening and he would smoke the rest to preserve them. A garrote from his pack served as a satisfactory string, and he looked for a place to make camp that would be near the water, but not near any game trails.

The secondsight came to him easily, painting the ancient yautja road on the mountainside above him. He was getting better and better at extending its range; it surged over the mountains like a spectral tide, revealing the land as it was thousands of years ago. He had even begun to train himself out of the need to move his hand to direct the vision. The landslide above him repaired itself, and the road went on around the slope until it reached the cove of the mountains, the dead-end of the valley to the south. There, his vision revealed a massive system of lifts and pulleys and a small ladder of switchbacks that crept down to the valley floor, and then the large fields and stout stone walls nestled into the mountain walls.

Closing his left eye to save his strength, he saw with his right that most of the stone walls still stood, buttressed by trees and dirt mounds. The wind across the valley floor faded away into silence as he walked closer. The ground changed under his feet; an overgrown stone path led into the ruins. He followed it, passing by one small round hovel that was mostly gone, only the outline of its walls remaining, nearly totally reclaimed by mosses. A larger building next to it still stood, but the roof had long ago rotted away, leaving only the notches for the ceiling beams.

The main building at the site stood closest to the wall, built just against the mountainside, and the centuries of neglect made it seem part of the mountain itself, rather than anything built by yautja hands. The round doorway seemed to grow as he approached it. Escthta smoothed his hands around the doorway, easily able to reach the top; it was only a few inches taller than himself. He turned to face the courtyard, sweeping his hand down the final curve of the moongate, and then opened his left eye.

_A monastic order._ The yautja around him walked in pairs or threes in short, plain tunics, their locks completely shorn, their tusks filed down or removed. The fields that stretched forth into the valley were full of stocked herd animals, dried plants and medicinal roots, tended by younger yautja, their tonsured heads wreathed with short locks like thorns. Escthta began to follow the apparitions as they moved past him into the monastery, and a flash of red at the corner of his vision made him jerk his head around.

The red fluttered at the edge of the building, as if someone stood just behind the corner, their cloak billowing in the wind. It glowed with a warm, intense light against the wan shadows of the past. The red resolved itself with his left eye when he blinked his right; it was an echo, like the priestess from before, like the monks around him. "Not from now, then," he said out loud.

"I wouldn't say that," a voice murmured.

"What would you say, then?" Escthta answered, quite before he was able to stop himself from replying. The voice seemed oddly familiar to him. He brushed aside the nagging fears of madness—stranger things had happened to him now than a little madness could offer. He slid one foot toward the corner of the monastery, and the red flashed out of his vision, evaporating. The specters around him moved on about their daily lives, ignoring him. Even when he crept up and peeked around the corner, Escthta was still alone.

**xXx**

**Author's Notes:** _I know it's been a long time, but I still have a lot to say._


End file.
